


Honeyed Eyes

by CallMeHopeless (IAmNotBread)



Category: Logan Lucky (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Biting, Captivity, Chains, F/M, Fainting, Imprisonment, Knotting, Logan Family Curse (Logan Lucky), Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mutual Pining, Romance, Rutting, Sex, Sexual Tension, Sharing a Bed, Werewolf!Clyde, human!reader, whos a good boy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2019-10-22 17:45:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 34,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IAmNotBread/pseuds/CallMeHopeless
Summary: The newest attraction at the local circus is anything but an ordinary wolf. Clapped in chains and kept in a cage; he’s slowly given up all hope of rescue. But kindness can be found in unlikely places: and Clyde is slowly learning to trust that you might be the one to give him his freedom - and with it, his humanity.





	1. When all is despair you are there at my side

**Author's Note:**

> An upload of my fic, Honeyed Eyes, imported from Tumblr to Ao3! Please enjoy!

“You know I’m a little old for the circus, right?”  


Marie laughs - laughs musically as she leans back on the little plastic seat that reaches up to her mid back. Colours fly in kaleidoscopic waves; dancing in your vision as they reach up to the center of the tent. It’s not a full house by any means, but it’s a day off you both desperately crave. Marie managed to get you both front row seats, and well: something in the scent of cheap popcorn and culled grass that sends you homeward, fills you with a comfort and a strange anticipation in your stomach. 

“Too old for the circus” she scoffs “right, sure. Because that’s a thing that happens. Suddenly you get to a nondescript age and they say ‘ma’am, you want to come to the funnest place in the world for a few hours to break the monotony of life? No, you’ve got tits and we’re worried it’ll startle the jugglers.’ And then they throw you to the curb with a squeak of their nose.”  


Marie doesn’t do subtle. You like that about her.

Lights dim; drawing your gaze to the center of the ring. Crowds hush and acts bustle on - tightrope walkers, jugglers. At one point, some sort of fire-breathing based act (you can’t quite comprehend it - how the hell is he doing that?) and three gymnasts doing tricks over hot coals (Marie winces the entire time). 

It’s only when the final act comes on that you really feel yourself drawn forward in your seat. Plastic digs into your jeans as you grip your legs; some sort of cage being dragged into view by four lycra-clad gymnasts. The cage is entirely obscured by a thick red blanket, but something inside it jitters and _groans_ as though it’s distressed. You’re sure this isn’t a circus with animals - sure of it. Didn’t the brochure say so? An all-human circus. Exclusively. No ifs or buts.

“Ladies and gentlemen” a voice booms through the speakers, lights slightly dimming “and for our final act, we are pleased to present: The Terrifying Wolf-Man!”  


A gymnast rips the red cover from the top of the cage, leaving it trailing in a flurry on the floor as sand kicks up. The cage rattles with the force - and then, the crowd freezes.

 _“Holy shit”_ Marie whispers, equal parts reverence and fear.  


Everyone hears of little stories about circus freaks and what. You remember watching a documentary, somewhere in the late night re-runs on Youtube, about dog-faced men and people with genetic defects. You hear stories of animals kept as curios by ringmasters - white tigers, elusive two-headed rats. Exotic scorpions.

This is none of those. Nothing like that.

Jet black fur covers its body; a mass of dark tangles, untamed and smoky in the dull light. One of its arms is shackled to a bar in the cage; the other cuts off just above the elbow, leaving a stump in its wake. The shackle is stained with crusted blood, rubbing against the skin of frighteningly large paw. Hind legs seem to shake as they’re forced to balance the creature’s weight, tail drooping and curled between them as though from intense fear. Muscles ripple on its stomach, taut as muscles can be - strong and defined on the soft underside in a way you’ve never seen on an animal before. Its snout is clamped shut by a leather muzzle: nostrils flaring as it sips in the scents of the crowd.

But the eyes. God, the eyes. Liquid gold flecked with chocolate brown - beautiful, really. Devastatingly so. And so, so afraid. It seems almost dazed as the lights flash over its eyes, metal bars separating it from the outside world. 

A dark, cold prison.

Whispers of awe run through the crowd - mumbles, murmurs. There’s something ghastly about the scene before you; something cruel about the way the crowd stare at the huge, wolflike creature: like it’s a _thing._ Disgusting. Terrifying. No pity for the freakish thing.

One of the gymnasts rattles the bars of the cage with a thick, wooden stick. Clanks echo: the wolfish thing _howls_ as though pain radiates through its bones from the sound. Chains jangle: its eyes scan the room in desperation, soft gold flitting from one shocked patron to another.

And then they land on yours.

The wolf huffs a soft whine, its cheeks puffing as it stares at you and holds you there - holding time still, for the briefest of infinities. A quiet stills you; the creature sniffing, tasting a scent in the roof of its mouth. Its struggles just...stop. Watching you. Holding to you. And in its eyes: you see all you need to see.

“It’s looking at you” Marie murmurs, her hand on your shoulder.

The roof of your mouth is suddenly incredibly dry. Palms shake.

“I know” you whisper. The wolf huffs another whine, leaning forward. Leaning towards you. In those golden eyes, there’s such profound intelligence. Gentleness. Awareness.

Human. It looks devastatingly _human_.

“It’s _still_ looking at you.”  


It won’t _stop_. It holds you in its gaze; curling in your stomach. Imploring you, begging you.

_Help me._

* * *

“How much to see more of that wolf?” you ask; heart up in your throat as you stare down the ringmaster with a palpable nervousness. You can hardly feel your palms, nails digging in so hard that there’s a bitter sting rising up in the ridges.  


The man scoffs, grabbing up a handful of leftover juggling balls. Thick, red hair laps at his neck: scratchy beard wisping at his chin.

Marie tugs your sleeve.

“Come on” she whispers “just leave it.”  


You shrug her off and pull out a fifty dollar bill from your pocket.

“How much?”  


The man does look up then; regarding you with a heady mix of skepticism and distaste.

“A hundred” he says, licking his lips. “For that, you can have as long as you want. Fuckin’ thing’s turning out to be a bad investment anyway.”  


It’s no question. You palm him the hundred, even as Marie huffs a complaint and walks off toward her car. On shaky legs, you follow the redhaired man through the slew of seats and out of the curtains between the tents. Sunlight dapples through the red and yellow canopy of materials, soft sand kicking up on your boots as you pass a pair of jugglers.

Coming to a stop by a clearing, you note a hollowed-out truck. One of the sides is entirely made up of metal bars; glinting bright silver in contrast to the chipping red of the other three walls. Scratchy straw fills the space: thick chains hammered into the walls as though to hold the creature down. In the middle: the thing huffs, its back to you as it lays facing the back wall. The way its legs are curled protectively is almost...almost _human_. A distressed stance you’d know anywhere.

“What is that thing?” you ask quietly. Spit crackles in your throat, watching the way its chest rises and falls. Hitching as though desperately trying to calm itself.  


The ringmaster laughs.

“You won’t believe me if I tell you.”  


“Try me.”  


The man folds his arms, waistcoat dipping as he leans back against the side of the truck.

“Werewolf.” His grin is cold and lopsided; he already knows how you’ll react.  


And react you do - eyes rolling.

“Right.”  


He shrugs. “Told ya.”

“So you’re telling me” you say “that’s...that’s a guy. A guy you’re keeping locked up in a little cage like that? Are you kidding me?”  


The wolf’s ears seem to prick up, but it fails to move. Whether from exhaustion or fear, you’re not quite sure.

“Now you listen here” the ringmaster retorts. “We give ‘em good food and lodgings. Keep ‘em clean and let ‘em have peace and quiet outside of showtime. If he ain’t changin’ back into a guy; that’s his problem. Far as I’m concerned if he wants to get out of here, he can just go doin’ that.”  


You don’t even dignify that with a response: approaching the cage and resting your hands on the worn bars. The metal is smooth at your touch, little sticks of straw poking at your belly. It smells good in here; almost like cologne. Nothing like you’d expect.

“When you’re done inspectin’ the merchandise” the ringmaster sniffs “get out. Don’t be comin’ back here.” He moves off, calling over his shoulder. “And his name’s Clyde.”  


The man moves off as you silently appraise the huffing wolf - its back legs stretching out ever so slowly. A werewolf? How utterly _stupid_. Werewolves don’t exist - and if they did, wouldn’t they look like a shitty Hollywood blockbuster?

“Clyde?”  


The wolf stirs in response as your eyes widen; the sound of a loose chain jinking on the floor as he rolls onto his side. Bleary gold eyes take you in as he huffs, muzzle now removed to let his jaws free of the leather. There’s a spark of acknowledgement that catches you off guard - even moreso as he staggers up onto three paws. His gait is slowed by the missing paw, but there’s something so familiar in his movements. Something hauntingly sad and pained and _fearful_.

Facing you, eyes low: Clyde stops.

“Can you...” you swallow thickly, pushing away from the bars “...can you understand me?”

Clyde puffs air from his cheeks. With a sweeping motion, he bows his head. Dark fur ruffles.

“Ohhh no. No. That wasn’t a nod. That’s...this isn’t happening.”  


Clyde huffs again, yellow eyes appraising you with some form of soft skepticism. As though he’s the one testing _you_ out. Your hands run through your hair nervously, jittering on the spot.

“Six times two” you offer. “Make a noise when you hear the right answer.”  


Clyde blinks.

“Three.”  


A pause.

“Eleven.”  


Nothing.

“Twelve.”  


Clyde whimpers.

“Oh my god.”

You stagger backward; breathing ragged as you stumble into the wooden bough of a nearby tree. This is insane: werewolves _don’t_ exist. You’ve heard of all sorts of crazy shit: but people shifting into giant wolves and ending up as circus attractions? That really isn’t in the ballpark of stuff you’re willing to accept.

But this wolf is responsive. Intelligent.

“He’s right. You’re...Clyde, you’re a werewolf. Oh god.”

Clyde shifts his weight on his three paws; stump wobbling as he pushes his nose against the bars. It slips between them just so: just enough that he can push the black mass of his muzzle through and huff at you. Huff at you as though he’s trying to draw you in, draw you close.

Cautiously, you take several steps forward, letting your fingertips lightly dip out towards his nose. He seems to strain even further at that: furry chest straining as he whines, trying to reach you for just the briefest of moments.

And so when your fingers gently stroke the cold wet of his nose: Clyde makes a harrowingly desperate noise. His whole body seems to ripple with an insistent, painful energy as he nuzzles harshly into your hand - as harshly as he can, given the circumstances. Any worries you had about Clyde being something that needed chaining float away with the painful want in his eyes.

He’s lonely. He’s so, so lonely. Scared and lonely and desperate to be held.

You can’t imagine it. Being stuck in that body, tortured and chained - dragged out for amusement of crowds. How much it would make someone crave even the briefest of social interactions, the briefest of caring touches on your skin.

“I’m so sorry” you whisper, tears threatening to spill over as you run your hands over the soft fur on his muzzle. He puffs breaths into your palm, closing his eyes as though to savour the moment. “I’m so sorry they’re doing this to you.”  


A buzz in your pocket leads your spare hand down to the back of your jeans: plucking your phone from the denim and pushing it to your ear. Clyde’s eyes follow the movement: still leaning against your other hand, mouthing the skin on it insistently.

“Marie, I just...”  


_“I don’t know what you’re doing, pal, but we’ve gotta go.”_  


Clyde whines, needy and strong.

“I can’t. I can’t leave him.”  


The phone crackles as you push it into the crook of your neck, freeing your hand in the process. With both hands free, you’re able to pat Clyde’s head: lathering him in attention. His eyes flutter shut, breathing steady as he revels in it.

Marie sighs.

_“I’ve got a meeting in an hour. It’s a 45 minute drive back to my place. We_ **need** _to go.”_  


Annoyance flits through her tone - but you don’t have a choice. Marie’s your ride home - without her, you’re pretty much fucked. This circus isn’t going anywhere until the end of the week; and it’s not like you can stay with Clyde even if you want to. Night is drawing in: and what’re you going to do? Bust the guy out with no tools or plan? No - you need advice. Tactical thinking. To clear your head.

“Alright, I’m coming. I’ll be there in five.”  


You withdraw your hands, ending the call and shoving the device into your pocket: and Clyde absolutely _despairs_. His paws clatter, making his chains jangle on the straw-covered floor. Pupils wide and dark and desperate as he _howls._

“I’ll come back!” you tell Clyde; letting him earnestly nuzzle your palms again. His nuzzling seems even more panicked now; as though he no longer cares how needy he seems. “I’ll come back tomorrow. I’m going to figure this out, Clyde. I’m going to get you out of here. But I can’t do that tonight: not without a plan. You have to trust me.”  


Clyde seems to still at that: eyes closing. His forehead pushes against the bars as he bows his head, pressing black fur against the flat of your hand. Resting it there. Regaining himself.

“I promise you, Clyde: I’m going to get you out of here. _I swear.”_  


And as you turn to walk away, slipping your palm off of his head and feeling the dust crunch under your feet: Clyde’s head stays bowed against the bars.

As though he can imprint the memory of your fingertips right onto his soul.

* * *

He wishes it was like in the movies.

Clyde was never really much of a movie buff - he prefers the company of books. Any books, all books. His brother used to tease him for it; but Clyde could never help himself. Every cent he ever found was spent on endless books - when he wasn’t working the bar, he was curled up on the sofa. Book in hand.

The movies always tell you it’s something like a blur. You lose control: give in to some primal urge. All memory goes out with the human skin, and the time as a wolf is almost like dreaming.

It’s nothing like that.

Clyde feels everything. Every want, every need. Every thought. Crystalline and clear; his mind still entirely his own. He’s aware of everything: aware of the way the chains on his legs dig into the thin flesh there, aware of the way they all look at him like he’’s this _creature_. 

The loneliness is the worst, he thinks. Being trapped in a cage, lonely and bitter and sad. Craving just...any form of company. Anything. The smallest exchange.

He shifts his body: yellow eyes drifting up to the soft cloud cover of the sky. Stars poke through every now and then, illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight. He lays on his side, paws curled in front of his body. Wet nose pressed against a metal bar.

It still smells like you. So much like you.

He wants to hold your scent in his lungs forever. Let it fill him up, up, up: fill him until it spills into his skin. Burns away the fur and paws and brings back the man he remembers being. He aches for it so badly that it feels like wildfire.

The way you looked at him...God. How long has it been since someone has looked at him like they feel for him? Looked at him like a man, a real man: seen the person in his skin? Too long. And when you touched him, he just...couldn’t help it. It should be shameful (and it is - it is) but it’s just...you smelled like _heaven_. Like something sharp and distinctive and exquisite on the roof of his mouth.

Beautiful. You’re so, so beautiful.

His head feels too full as he huffs a breath, lungs aching. Sooner or later, he knows he’ll fall asleep - fall asleep with that gorgeous scent on the roof of his mouth. Maybe it’ll carry him off to better dreams - dreams of a life where he’d be himself, he’d pour you a drink with a shy smile. _On the house, darlin’._

He’s scared and alone: but for the first time in as long as he remembers, Clyde Logan feels that light shiver at the base of his spine. That little tug on the muscles in his legs, a tingling on his lips.

It’s not enough to shift, but it’s _hope_. Comfort, pulling him just slightly back towards humanity. If you give him enough of it: maybe he’ll be free.

He huffs quietly, giving a little whine.

 _“I’m going to get you out of here”_ you’d said.  



	2. There's all I desire in your voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde finds hope in your embrace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just love writing this fic so much! You asked for it, I have delivered! ALL HAIL BORKY BOY CLYDE!

Clyde Logan.

Your eyes scan the webpage, over and over: close to committing it to memory as you untangle every little piece of information. West Virginia State Police listed him as missing three months ago, in bold typeface as it stood out on their website. Missing from Boone County, it says. 

And the _picture_. It’s like staring into the face of a familiar stranger - like recalling the visage of a dream. The man before you has thick, shaggy hair. An angular profile, yet a muscular build. Plush lips peel back into a nervous smile, brown t-shirt clinging to the muscles on his pectorals as he leans back against the exterior of a concrete building, beer in hand. And sported on his other...a prosthetic. His left arm.

The same arm that your wolf has missing.

You don’t need to do a double take: and a little part of you wishes you did. Part of you had hoped that you’d scan the endless pages on the State Police website and find nothing - find no trace of any man who even remotely sparked familiarity in you. Had hoped that this was all some sort of fever dream.

But it’s him. 

He’s so much more handsome than you ever could have dreamed up: listed as 6ft 3. An ex-Veteran. He owns a bar; he was last seen somewhere nearby it. Contact information on reporting him lists a few local sergeants, and for the briefest moment, you actually consider calling them.

And saying...what, exactly? 

No - _no_. That’s not happening. Not until he’s halfway human again.

But then, in small text at the bottom of the page, a contact is listed: Jimmy Logan. Clyde Logan’s brother, offering a small reward for information on his whereabouts. A local area code - looks like a landline. No mobile?

Nervously, you thumb at your mobile phone: punching in the number as your hands shake. What the hell are you going to say? Are there words for this? Does Jimmy...know?

The line rings...and rings...and rings. Finally, it offers a beep: prompting you to leave a message.

You clear your throat.

“Hi...Hi, um. I’m calling because...I saw you were asking for information regarding...Clyde? Is that it? Anyway, I don’t know how much I should say over the phone, but please - give me a call if you can.” You slowly recited your name and the return number: voice wavering. “Please just...call me back as soon as you can.”  


It’s a stuttery mess of a phone message: darting about the point, not concise at all. Even as you hang up; anxiety sticks in your throat like a ball, stopping you from swallowing down.

With shaky hands you jot down everything you can on a crummy notepad, printing off the webpage and stuffing it into a threadbare backpack. You gather a few basic tools, some light snacks, zipping it up carefully. Palming your car keys, you check your hair and sling everything over your shoulder.

Breathe. Just breathe.

* * *

Clyde feels his heart leaping in his chest.

He’s been pacing for the better part of the day - back and forth, back and forth. The little straw cage isn’t big enough for him to let out any of this nervous energy, singing in his paws and building in his muscle. He wants to run more than almost anything: wants to feel the grass under his paws, feel the sweet relief of the breeze against his metal-clasped legs. 

More than _almost_ anything.

He puffs a whine; metal chain clinking as he does another lap. Every now and again, he’ll bring his nose up to the bar you’d leaned against last night: nervously huffing at it and letting it fill him. Every time he drags it in, he feels his whole body tingle: electricity in his bones, dragging him downward. Shifting is still a long way off, but Clyde has to wonder.

Has to wonder if there’s something _about_ you. 

He doesn’t pretend to know much about his condition - he knows shifting back and forth is easier when he’s calm, though. Tranquility breeds control: when Clyde feels a soft breeze, a gentle summer night, he feels the gentle shiver in his blood. For months now, that feeling has totally escaped him. He’s spent days and days trying, pleading for a shift to come. _Nothing_. 

But thinking of you, smelling you... _yes_. It drags him closer to it, lets him feel his humanity in his blood. It has his body responding, internal clockwork moving in all the right ways. God, your scent, your visage: he can’t deny that even though he might be trapped in the body of a wolf, his wants are...

_For goodness sakes, Clyde. Not now. That ain’t any way to feel calm, now is it?_

“Clyde?”  


He bolts around, golden eyes seeking out your voice in the evening light. Every part of his body ignites into sudden joy: and when he sees you, standing by the front of his cage, Clyde lets out a soft little bark of pleasure.

You’re...God. So beautiful. Has he ever seen someone more beautiful? Tank top and skirt, hair pulled back. Smelling of everything Clyde loves: of spring flowers, swirling perfumes. It makes his whole body ache as your eyes light up: throwing your backpack down onto the ground and reaching a hand through the bar.

Clyde practically sprints to your side, leaning in to your pulse and huffing, taking you in. Your hands are so soft as they appraise the underside of his chin; brushing the soft fur of his chest in greeting with a toothy smile.

“Hi Clyde. Did you miss me?”  


Clyde whimpers.

_More than anythin’ else._

You bend down to unzip your backpack, pulling out a sheet of paper and unfolding it carefully. Flattening it, you push the paper up to the bars and hold it there, pointing at a little black-and-white picture in the center.

Clyde’s heart almost stops.

“Is this you?”

He touches his nose to the paper, letting it crinkle by his muzzle as he stares it down. He remembers that day well - it’d been boiling hot, and Clyde had been standing on the porch of Jimmy’s little suburban home. Sipping a beer as a light breeze ruffled his hair: laughing at some dumb joke his brother had taken to telling.

If he were able to cry, he thinks he would. Grieve for an easier time: when it all made sense.

Clyde lets his eyes softly shut, dipping his head down, then back up. _Clyde Logan, missing from Boone County._ Even though Jimmy had known it’d be moot, he’d still put out the call. Hoping someone, _anyone_ , might find his little brother.

You hush him with tender hands, folding the piece of paper into your skirt pocket. Bending down, you grab the strap of your backpack and hoist it onto your shoulder. Purposefully, you march around to the other side of the truck, and Clyde, against his better judgement, _howls_. Panic beats in his chest - where are you? Where the hell did you go? _Please, please don’t leave him here._

Some sort of noise on the door side of the truck; he smells your presence through the metal and moves to run to the source of your scent. Chain jingles as he hobbles - then he yelps as it pulls taut. He kicks at his back leg, giving a whimper as he struggles against it, feeling the metal rub into the scabs on his ankle.

Something clunks: rattling metal. One thump, two thumps: then the door swings open.

Oh my god. You’re...He’s...

There’s nothing standing between you but straw: nothing at all. If this stupid goddamn chain wasn’t on, Clyde could literally hold you in his paws: and the thought of it has his whole body wracked with nerves as you swing around a monkey wrench victoriously. You busted the lock by just...hitting it really goddamn hard? Holy shit. Clyde can hardly feel his paws. You’re magnificent.

You let your backpack down, throwing the monkey wrench on top as you rush to Clyde: bending down on your knees and just...reaching out. Reaching to hold him, to bury your face in his scruff and hold him close as ever.

Clyde’s whole body ripples with pleasure as your warmth eclipses him, your scent on his thick dark fur from every angle, all over him. He dwarfs you easily, even just standing on his three legs. But your whole being is directed entirely on him, on holding his scruff and nuzzling him and god oh god oh god this is too much, this is too much after too long and he’s desperate for this and more, so much more-

He sobs wordlessly as he pushes his nose into the crook of your neck, licking at your chin, your face, anywhere. Straw moves as he lays down on the floor, kicking out his legs so that his massive form is as close to you as possible.

You taste like absolute heaven. He licks against your skin and his eyes are practically rolling back in ecstasy from every sensation: your scent, your skin, your touch. 

Your hands reach down to the metal chains at his paws: following them to the huge bolt in the wall. No, there’s no way you’re getting that out with a monkey wrench. Clyde’s thought about it over and over - you’d need a hacksaw and a lot of muscle.

But even if he won’t be free today: he’ll take this. God, this is...this is incredible. Your touch just sends his heart ablaze, lighting him up: he feels so close to human for the first time in a long time.

His ears swivel as your phone vibrates, flicking your cheek with the soft fur from the shell as you push it to your ear.

“Hello?”  


A voice crackles to life at the end of the phone, and Clyde immediately jolts back.

_“Hi ma’am, I got a phone call from this number. Left on my machine. You sayin’ you’ve got information about my brother, Clyde?”_  


Oh my lord. He’d recognise that voice anywhere: Jimmy’s twang coming out even over the crackling of the phone. Clyde’s legs are shaking as he puffs a breath, pressing his ear closer to your phone. 

So close. So close to safety now. Hope flits in his chest like butterflies in his ribs and he tries to quash it, tries to stay grounded and realistic but god, he could just cry.

“Yes” you breathe, your eyes darting to Clyde’s “I’m...I’m not sure how to explain to you this, Jimmy. There are so many things I...And I might be going crazy but-”

_“-You’re not goin’ crazy. You’re not. I can tell in your voice you ain’t crazy - so I’ve gotta ask you, ma’am, whether Clyde’s...walkin’ about on both legs. You understandin’?”  
_

Clyde puffs air in his cheeks, letting out a little whimper that crackles through the phone speaker. His ears swivel hopefully, body tense as he shifts his weight on his front leg.

_“...Clyde?”_  


Clyde looks to you for permission - you smile softly, giving an encouraging nod as he repeats the action.

“He’s here. I’m...I’m here with him.”  


_“Oh Lord. Bless you, sweetheart. Where are y’all at? I’m gonna hop in the truck and get on the highway to you right now. Are y’all safe?”_  


You lick your lips, looking around at the confines of Clyde’s cage. The red peeling paint on the ceiling has haunted Clyde for so long now, but for the first time - he almost feels it falling away.

You whittle off the address, grinning at Clyde as you softly stroke the hair on his ears.

“You’ll need to bring some sort of tools to cut through iron. Anything, whatever you’ve got.”  


Jimmy goes quiet for a second.

_“I swear, I’m goin’ to kill those bastards-”_  


Clyde growls in agreement. _Yes. He’ll enjoy watching that._

You hash out more details - how will you transport Clyde back to his trailer? You’ll need to bring him in your car - Jimmy’s truck doesn’t have enough room in the back. Clyde is trying to pretend that doesn’t send his heart skipping: the idea of you in his trailer is entirely too tempting.

Jimmy declares he’ll be there in thirty minutes: you should both hang tight while he gets there. Try not to attract too much attention, don’t call the police.

When you put the phone down; Clyde can’t help himself. His long pink tongue darts out to lick at your face, lick at your throat: drag your scent into his lungs and let it carry him. The way he’s marking you with his scent, his saliva: it’s tempting a heat in his blood. He knows what it’ll do to him. He already feels it in his veins - he’s been stuck in this form for too long without company, and your skin is begging him. 

God, when he shifts back - if he shifts back - he’s going to be paying for this. His hormones are going to go off the damn wall.

“Okay buddy” you laugh, shuffling up to lean your head against his stomach. He takes this as an invitation; throwing a glance over his shoulder and curling up around you, shielding you from view. If anyone looks in at a passing glance: they’ll just see a chained up wolf curled up, facing the wall. Not like anybody passes by anyway: not unless he needs feeding or humiliating some more.  


You hum softly as Clyde places a paw on your leg: gazing at you in wonder. In another life, another time: you might’ve met Clyde over a drink. Perhaps this is a blessing, though - how the heck would he ever have built the confidence to strike up conversation with someone so beautiful? He’s a coward, tried and true.

Clyde lets his body relax, heart still thrashing as he swallows deeply. Your presence curled up on him has all sorts of thoughts reeling through his mind: but there’s something _better_. Electricity, running through his pulse. His tail twitches - little shocks in his skull. Oh god, he’s close. It’s rolling through him, tempting at him. He tries to follow it, willing it harder than anything: _please, let this be it. Let me shift here, now. Let Jimmy show up to his brother - the brother he knows better than anythin’._

And someone out there starts to hear.

Clyde’s paws start to throb for the first time in months: the paw draped over your form suddenly gains a splitting pain in his bones. It radiates up into his skull, pulsing in his muscles as he gives a muffled groan. It shocks him immediately - how _human_ it sounds in his throat; the low baritone that leaves his lips is so Clyde that it makes his heart ache with self-pity.

“Oh” you gasp “Clyde, your...your _eyes_.”  


Yes! Oh yes! He’s...He can feel it! It’s unholy painful as his paws dig into the straw of the floor, claws stretching as joints pop from their sockets. Nausea hits him, hard and fast as his teeth sink back into his jaw: almost blinding in its complete agony as he thrashes on the straw.

“...p...le...e...aAa-”  


It hacks from his throat: so close to the words on his tongue as he cries out. Please, please...

“P-l...ease!”  


His skin shivers as something pulls taut; Clyde reaches out, bringing the feeling into him, letting those shudders wrack him as he huffs in your scent-

And it snaps back.

No. No! This isn’t-

Fangs jut back out from his gums as his hands recede; pleas turning to growls and whines as his bones click back into place. He cries out in despair as the shivers make him sway, trembling on the spot in pain and frustration. 

Clyde feels despair wracking his bones as he cries: your hands on his scruff as you nuzzle into his neck reassuringly. He forgot, in that stretching moment of pain, that you’re here: present. Waiting for him when his golden eyes open.

“Oh, Clyde. I’m so, so sorry. That looked...Oh God. Don’t worry, we’re...it’s not long now.”  


Clyde doesn’t know what to say. And even if he did - what would it do? He can’t...It won’t...

But you’re right. As you nuzzle him, nuzzle him like a mate might - oh god. _No, Clyde, don’t think about that. Don’t be torturing yourself that way._ But, as you hold him: Clyde looks up at the pink of the sky, peaking out from the slightly open door. 

Jimmy’s coming. You’re here. He’s gotten closer to shifting back than he has in so, so long.

He huffs a breath, leaning into your touch.

Hope flits in his belly.

_Please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	3. It's war all the time but you bare no scar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You meet the second Logan - and the big breakout commences.

“...And so, that’s how we met. I guess if she hadn’t spilled that milkshake on my jeans, I’d never have properly met her, you know? And then I’d never have met you. Life just sort of does that.”  


You’re not even sure what you’re saying anymore - you’re just letting words fumble out through your lips. The sky has grown darker in Clyde’s little metal cage; your voice hushed as you lay back against the fur of his stomach. He seems to just...revel in you speaking to him. About anything, everything - the most trivial shit you can think of. Your job, your life, your friendship with Marie. He even puffed a whiny laugh at a few of your more terrible jokes: making you grin like an idiot and nuzzle into his fur. Despite the chill of the air, Clyde is just...running ridiculously hot. A giant, fluffy hot water bottle: black fur keeping you tucked out of sight.

It’s only when you hear a quiet knock on the metal door to the cage that you freeze up: fear licking up at your spine in intense panic. Clyde’s breathing faulters as he jolts upward, paws clattering on the straw as he moves to stand over you - lips peeled back from his sharp canine teeth. Some sort of rumble in his throat.

“Clyde?” a husky voice whispers. “That you?”  


Clyde’s ears swivel: his tail suddenly swooping from side-to-side. You shift up to sit as you watch Clyde’s yellow eyes zone in on the door; a needy, constant whine pushing from between his teeth as he pads on the spot. His tail easily whips the air across your face, making your skirt flutter as metal chains jangle.

The door creaks in the growing dark; a man stepping through the threshold with a guarded look on his face, holding a bolt cutter as though in some strange self-defense. Short-cropped mousy hair and a neat beard frame thin lips; a grey button-up pulled taut on his chest.

And the moment he sees Clyde: well, his whole face just _lights up._

Any notion you have that Jimmy might not be totally aware of Clyde’s condition falls away the moment he rushes in, falling to his knees with a genuine laugh as Clyde whines and jumps on him. Clyde’s tail is wagging fast enough to send straw rushing about as Jimmy wrestles his paws out of the way, Clyde yipping a bark and playfully leaping around.

“Easy!” Jimmy beams, pushing Clyde away just enough to stagger to his knees “This shirt’s brand new. Much as I’ve missed ya, little brother.”  


Clyde chuffs a laugh, nosing Jimmy as Jimmy’s grey eyes flicker to yours.

“And you mus’ be the hero of the hour.”  


You smile sheepishly, shrugging.

“I have my moments.”  


Jimmy shuffles across the straw to you; dropping his bolt cutters as you hold out your hand, offering up your name.

Jimmy doesn’t hesitate; pulling you in for a tight hug that catches you by surprise. Letting you balance your chin on the curve of his shoulder 

“You’re gonna learn pretty quick - we Logans are huggers.”  


Right as you open your mouth to respond: a low rumble reverberates from Clyde’s chest. The sound makes Jimmy jerk back; brow creasing as you throw a glance at Clyde.

His whole body is taut - eyes narrowed as he watches you both. Lips very subtly peeled back near the curve of his muzzle, revealing a flash of white that glints in the starlight.

“Clyde Logan” Jimmy huffs, shaking his head in disbelief. “I come all this way to get you outta here, and you take that attitude with me? You serious?”  


“Did I...” you swallow thickly, scooting back to lean against the cool metal of the wall “...Did I do something wrong?”  


Clyde’s insistent rumbling stops; his lips drooping down. But his pose is still insistent, still defensive - his eyes on Jimmy’s face. Communicating something you aren’t quite familiar with.

Jimmy picks up his bolt cutters, opening and closing them with an audible snap as he shrugs.

“Don’t think it’s you he’s in a huff at” he says, sizing up the manacles on Clyde’s legs. The metal is weakest right where it rubs at his ankles, just where the pads of his paws meet the soft fur in the weakest joint. Jimmy lines up the cutter, letting the blades sit on each side of the metal. Clyde’s yellow eyes follow his action with a mixture of relief, discomfort and annoyance - that tautness still in his frame as he watches on.  


“If Mama Logan could see you actin’ like this...” Jimmy pushes his weight down with a grunt, watching the metal bend slightly. His voice is low - low enough that you have to wonder whether he’s trying to keep you out of earshot or not. “I know you’ve been locked up in here, Clyde, but this ain’t the time to be gettin’ territorial on me. Much as she’s pretty-”  


Clyde lets out a fierce growl, his teeth flashing as your face flushes red. Stumbling to your feet, you make your way to the other end of the cage to grab your backpack and wrench, tucking everything away and zipping it neatly.

“...You stop that or ahm shavin’ you with the electric razor at home. Shave a stripe right down through your head. And we all know when you shift back it’ll look like a big ‘ol bald spot.”  


A loud thwink and a quiet cheer from Jimmy heralds the first chain as off, and he makes his way around to Clyde’s back leg, still talking to his brother as he does. Mumbling little phrases, almost as though he’s trying to soothe his own frayed nerves somehow. Clyde’s been missing for three months; no doubt Jimmy has spent a good amount of that time fearful and hurt. How much of a relief must it be to find him, to see him alive? See him in good spirits?

But even as Clyde’s ears swivel to follow Jimmy, his eyes reach up to yours. Soft gold, melted honey - flecked with chocolate and cinnamon and a gentle blurring in the edges. Dark pupils follow you as you throw the straps over your shoulders, watching Jimmy get to work. Clyde’s dark fur just lightly shifts in the breeze, and you watch him appraise you with steady eyes.

His gaze holds a thousand things; a thousand little thoughts rushing by, holding you in the moment. A lingering gratefulness, a gentle appraisal. Fear, hope, pain. Longing, perhaps?

You can’t help but think back to before: back to the way you’d seen his eyes shift from that liquid gold. How those flecks of chocolate had pooled outward, growing as his iris shrank down. The colour of his human eyes - the warmth in them. How profoundly lovely the shade had been.

Now more than ever: you want to see that colour again. Want to know Clyde Logan: want to put together the pieces you’ve found scattered about. See if the man meets the expectations you’ve thrown together.

Something tells you it’ll happen, soon enough.

* * *

Getting Clyde into the car had been every bit as difficult as you’d expected.

Once Jimmy had gotten that last chain off - Clyde had totally sprinted off. Clattering paws had bolted through the doorway of his cage and out into the night: inspiring a huffed laugh from Jimmy as dark fur blended into the starry sky.

“He’ll be back” Jimmy laughed. “Been too long. Gotta spread his legs a bit. Can’t be good for the poor guy, couped up in this little steel prison.”  


You had both cautiously scoped out the parking lot, carefully making your way to your little old car. Jimmy had parked just a few spaces away; and so while you popped the door and stuffed your backpack inside, he had grabbed some supplies.

“Right” Jimmy sighed. “Blanket’s to go over him in the car journey - it’s only twenty minutes or so down the road, but ain’t no good even setting out if the cops pull y’all over and see a big ‘ol wolf in the back.” Jimmy handed the huge blanket to you - bright red in shade, soft against your fingertips. “And plus...I reckon the excitement’s gonna bring him close to shiftin’. If he does...well, he’ll surely panic for his dignity. Always been a shy one.”  


You had felt your face flush at that; your mind zipping back to that little picture of Clyde, leaning back against a wall. All that rippling muscle, soft dark hair-

_Okay. Nope. Not the time._

Clyde had come back into view, then - dark pelt whipping around in the breeze as his yellow eyes shone with joy. He was _fast_ : faster than you would’ve thought for a wolf on three legs. Amazing, how well he must’ve adapted to it.

“And these-” Jimmy slapped down several ice packs “-are for if he shifts and needs somethin’ for the pain. Hurts like a bitch if he goes a while without one, so he’s probably gonna be feelin’ like hell. If he passes out; lay him down and put one on each side of his neck and one between his knees.”  


Passes out? Oh god.

Clyde skidded to a stop; huffing and panting as you nodded, ruffling the fur on his head. He really was huge; easily coming up to your mid-chest.

“You know I have a thousand questions, right? I mean...I literally don’t know where to start. My head feels like it’ll explode.”  


Jimmy just smirked.

“I’m gonna leave those to my brother. Give you both somethin’ to look forward to for motivation.”  


Jimmy had kept listing a few things off that would help: blasting the AC would help Clyde shift, and help with keeping him calm; something about being stuck as a wolf causing Clyde’s hormones to go haywire. Having the radio on seemed to help him, too.

Bundling Clyde into the car had been an utter riot; he had willingly hoisted himself in, but found himself unable to stand up once inside - so he was forced to sort of...drape himself over the seats. Massive head pushed up against the window and his tail curled around himself. Jimmy had needed to almost fold Clyde in on himself, which had lead to Clyde snapping at Jimmy with his huge jaws more than once.

Once he was compacted inside, you’d draped the blanket over his hulking form, tucking it behind his haunches to keep him covered. There was something amusing in it - massive wolf, draped in a big red blanket. Yellow eyes and huffing nose poking out.

Jimmy had put the address into your phone; given you his number to text if there was a problem. And with all of that; you had bundled yourself into your drivers seat and taken a deep breath. Readying yourself to rendezvous back at Clyde’s trailer. 

Which brings you back to the present.

Your car is absolutely freezing; cold enough in your skirt that you’ve had to pull on an old coat, skin pricked with little goosebumps. The radio plays some familiar soft acoustic songs as you keep your hands at ten and two, headlights illuminating the stretching highway.

Every so often, Clyde lets out a puffed whine, or bumps the back of your seat with his nose. He seems to like the smell of your car - or perhaps it’s your smell he seems to enjoy. Something familiar, something soft.

You hear a quiet rumble; at first assuming it’s the sound of an engine revving a little too hard. But then Clyde seems to shuffle, his breathing picking up pace. Insistently, he pushes his muzzle into the back of your seat: huffing hard, dragging in the air as the blanket draped over him seems to shake.

“You okay, Clyde?”   


Your eyes dart up to the rear view mirror: watching as Clyde twists under his blanket. Sharp yellow eyes flash in your vision: then flooding with chocolate brown. Bleeding into his iris as though it’s slowly filtering in.

Oh god. Oh, fuck. He’s shifting in the back of your car: a thought that fills you with a mixture of encompassing dread and this fleeting, beautiful hope. It all coils in your stomach: your grip on the steering wheel tightening as you pray to anyone, everyone that this time he can do it. That you can meet the man behind those gorgeous eyes.

The sound of cracking is harrowing as Clyde whines and howls; crunching bone, snapping and popping. The blanket shifts wildly: the sound of Clyde kicking the plastic of the door and scrambling against the cloth. The sounds escaping his mouth change by the second: so close now to sobs of pain that your heart hammers wildly.

“It’s alright” you coo quietly, voice shaking. “We’re nearly home, Clyde. Nearly home.”

You nearly jump out of your skin when a paw slams down on the center console; shaking wildly as the claws elongate, thickening as fur recedes. The knuckles bend as he reaches out, claw on the side curling and uncurling as it grasps the plastic of the console. Dirty fingernails, tugging just slightly on your thick coat.

You keep one hand firmly on the wheel, letting the other gently drift to Clyde’s hand. It’s huge, knuckles white from gripping hard - but as the muscles jump under your fingertips; it’s perfectly human. Weathered and calloused and dirty but human: human and real and here.

You let your hand roam over his, settling on it and giving a little squeeze. Clyde’s shifting, creaking body, as quickly as it started - just stops. Stills. Blanket sitting much lower down, still utterly eclipsing his form save for this one lone hand.

A hoarse groan spills out from somewhere under the mass of red: decidedly human in every way. Clyde’s skin is feverish to the touch, despite the frankly arctic state of your car.

Neither of you say a word for what feels like an age: not daring to move as Clyde seems to let his breath hitch in his chest. You move to put your hand back on the wheel - but he catches it. Hooks his index finger around your pinky, pulling you back demandingly.

As though he can’t bear to let you go just yet.

“I’m here” you whisper, smiling nervously to yourself and swallowing hard. “I’ve got you.”  


Clyde retracts his hand for a moment, leveraging his weight against the window as his palm splays out. Slowly, with a heaved groan: he pushes himself up to sit. Letting the blanket fall to pool in his lap as he squeezes his eyes shut in the throes of pain for a moment.

Pulling off the highway, you hazard a look at him. Hazard a look in your rear view mirror: just for the briefest of glances.

You nearly swerve off of the damned road.

Waves of dark, thick hair frame a chiseled face: constellations of moles and freckles on pale skin. Pouted, plump lips and wisps of facial hair: and _his chest_. God. Broad and thickly corded with tight muscle, honed and strong and exquisite.

He’s...Christ. He’s gorgeous. He’s naked. He’s...he’s here. _Human_. 

“Hi darlin’“, he whispers.  



	4. I fear I am bold but you leave me no choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde comes home - but not everything is plain sailing.

For a brief moment: your heart seems to stutter in your chest.

Soft, brown eyes follow you in the rear-view mirror; Clyde's lips wringing together as though he's sucking on his teeth. You try to pull your vision back to the road, but honestly, there's something hypnotic in this moment. You knew sooner or later he'd be human - but it'd always felt as though this might just be some fever dream, or something of a trick of the light. That you might wake up in your bed, realising this was all conjured up in a haze.

But _no_.

A hoarse groan spills over his lips; the tendons in his arm straining as his palm flexes against the glass window of your car. Condensation webs outward; your heart squeezes in your chest as you indicate to pull off of the highway, following the directions Jimmy had given to you. There's an urgency somewhere in the way your foot hovers on the accelerator, pushing you _just_ above the speed limit. 

You might be on borrowed time.

"Are you-" you lick your lips, gripping the steering wheel tightly. God, why is your heart pounding in your ears? "Are you doing okay?"

It's a stupid question - he's sheet white and shaking like a leaf, constellations of freckles in stark contrast to the pallor of his cheeks. You really hope the crappy First Aid certificate you got back in high school is valid for werewolves, because well: if not, you might just be plain old _fucked_. Clyde's eyes scrunch shut; his breathing shallow and wisping through clenched teeth as though his lungs aren't holding it in right.

"Been better" he mutters groggily; baritone reverberating in the car as he nervously huffs a breathy laugh.

Christ, his _voice_. 

Hedgerows blur into houses, and after a few moments you stop at the lights. It's utterly freezing, your teeth chattering as you throw a look over your shoulder.

Clyde's dark hair frames his face; skirting angular cheekbones that pinch upward in wonder. His palm hovers just a breadth away from his nose - and _oh_. Red rims the corners as he flexes his palm: flexes it as though to train his eyes on every curve of his fingertips, every crease of his knuckles. Plush lips part in wonder as he turns it, examines the back. Gaze focused on the little freckle just tucked on the inner part of his index finger.

Your heart feels as though it might just break from the softness of it - from the wonder in his eyes. Joy, endless joy, and a pain to match it.

Trying to remember what he thought could never be forgotten.

And then, his eyes capture yours.

It's something intense - the way his pupils seem to expand under your glance, under the soft light of traffic as red dusts the windows. He's so big, so broad and harsh - but his gaze is something else entirely. The midpoint between hunger and softness. Between something primal and something so exhaustively human. You had expected many things: expected him to be handsome. Expected him to be untamed, somehow.

You had never expected him to be so...

Complex. Dynamic.

Honest.

"Hey", he swallows quietly.

You let your lips crease upward.

"Hey."

And then yellow light rolls through: honey and gold on the car as traffic stutters forward. You rip your eyes away; physically forcing yourself to turn back to the task at hand. But even as you thumb at the A/C dial, you feel his gaze on you. Heating the back of your neck; making you shift in your seat as you begin to pass through suburban streets. You try to just...keep focused. Don't look back.

Don't look back.

Clyde drops to total silence in the back seat as you turn onto a worn-out driveway: a large trailer home stretching out across a grassy lawn. The porch light illuminates peeling white decking - on the grass, Jimmy's truck casts a shadow to the pavement. This must be Clyde's little home: his safe haven. It's fitting somehow - there's something free about it. Something maintained, but just a little less fixed down than you'd expect a surburban home to be.

You pull up the handbrake, grabbing your keys as the engine stutters out.

"Well, here we are. Bet you must-"

You freeze.

Clyde's head is drooping against the headrest, breathing uneven as his eyelashes flutter gently. He looks almost green; so pale that his skin is translucent, his chest rising and falling in shallow pants that indicate he's not conscious at all. Muscles ripple as the red blanket hitches on his hip, leading downward, leading-

No.

Not now.

You half-stumble out of your car door, pushing your full weight against it as you tumble out. Panic rises, hitching as your shoes hit gravel: Clyde's front door opening to reveal Jimmy, who takes the porch steps two at a time.

"Everythin' alright?" Jimmy asks as he approaches, scratching at the stubble on his chin.

You fumble in your glove compartment for the ice packs Jimmy gave you earlier; hands shaking as you bite your lip.

"I...I don't know. He shifted back but then he...He's..."

Jimmy's eyes widen: calloused fingers reaching for the car door handle and yanking it open. A gust of cold air swirls out into the night as Jimmy mutters something unintelligible; leaving you to watch on as he puts his body weight on the back of the seat. He grunts as he pulls an unconscious Clyde out of the car, and your eyes nearly bug out as you realise the red blanket that ought to be covering him has fallen to the floor. You desperately glance up at the sky: anywhere, everywhere. Blush creeping red hot over your cheeks.

Jimmy huffs in frustration: the sound of crunching gravel as he moves to support Clyde's weight.

"Mind givin' me a hand? I know he ain't got much dignity left but we've gotta get him inside and woken up before things go from bad to worse out here."

You are as hasty as you can be in avoiding staring at Clyde's indignity in any way; and it works. Sort of. You catch a glimpse of dark hair just below his bellybutton and it's enough to make your stomach sommersault wildly. Unsteadily, you hoist his arm over your shoulder - his hand skimming your bicep as it lolls about. Jimmy takes his injured arm, and both of you give a huff as you begin your ascent.

Clyde is simply _massive_. Even with a few months of being underfed, he's 6ft 3 of hard muscle; his hand dwarfing your arm as you huff and move forwards. That cologne smell clings to his skin as his head bobs, limply rolling around in time with his feet skidding on the gravel.

"Thought he'd be...bout thirty pounds lighter...by now..." Jimmy huffs a laugh, sweat glistening on his brow.

Clyde makes an unintelligible noise; his hand on your shoulder suddenly squeezing. Consciousness ebbing and flowing like the tide at the shore.

As you take the first step up; Clyde's feet seem to look for some purchase. His head lolls, his lips parting as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck. Black hair brushes on your cheek as he puffs a breath at the tender skin there: followed by some wetness - soft lips pressing to your pulsepoint in a way that makes you shudder. You take a few more steps, but Clyde's attentions don't waver - not even as a muffled groan leaves his lips; his teeth lightly finding your skin.

He's acting on instinct: unconscious and utterly unintentional.

But that doesn't stop the way your blood catches: electricity, burning in the dark.

You feel your face flush with warmth as you finally manage to reach the door: Jimmy pushes it open and warmth engulfs your skin. It's well kept, in its own little way. Striped couch, coffee table, tv on a wooden stand. A bookshelf in one corner, filled with novels and reference encyclopedias. Small kitchen with a six pack of beers on the countertop, fresh from the store. It smells just like...

 _"Clyde"_ Jimmy says, thumping Clyde's bare back with his fist. "Wakey wakey, little brother. We're home."

Clyde's lips retract from your throat for a moment to vibrate; rumbling in his chest as his body shakes with it. Jimmy begins to shuffle towards the couch - and then, suddenly, all at once: Clyde's consciousness snaps back into his body.

Naked, muscular legs twist and kick as Jimmy yelps: Clyde's feet smack on the wooden floor as he pants rapidly, black hair a tangled mess in his wake. You try to hold on, but he rips from your hold and stumbles in panic, tripping over his own feet as he stumbles on to the arm of his couch. His bare back muscles ripple, thighs shaking.

Oh God. Stop staring. Stop _staring_.

"Wh-" he wheezes, barritone darting as he tries to catch his breath "how'd...where'd I..."

Jimmy doesn't respond for a moment: hovering by the door as he nudges it shut with his foot. Clyde looks up as it audibly smacks shut: pupils wide, swallowing up that pretty chocolate colour. His gaze flickers from Jimmy to you - he holds you in his eyeline for a moment. His throat bobs, and slowly, ever so slowly: his gaze travels down his own body.

"Shit!" he gasps, trembling hands reaching to grab a striped pillow from the couch to shield his dignity. He can't decide where to cover first, and he almost seems as though he's trying to fold all 6ft 3 of his frame into the plush fabric of the pillow.

Jimmy audibly huffs a laugh.

"Gettin' used to no fur bein' there to hide your shame, I see."

Clyde does _not_  find that joke amusing. Not even a little. He grinds his teeth together and reaches for a knitted throw under the coffee table, wrapping it across his form as though it's a big, handknit poncho. It looks utterly ridiculous draped over him like that; little stitched flowers over corded muscle as he makes a noise of frustration.

"Y'think, Jimmy? Somethin' about this is amusin' to you? What if the neighbors'd seen?"

Jimmy shrugs. "Livin' in Boone County? This ain't anyone's first rodeo, Clyde. Naked neighbors are almost a given this time of night."

Clyde just shakes his head, muttering something as he moves to the sofa. He flops down onto it gracelessly, closing his eyes for a moment. His leg jiggles nervously as his lashes flutter and he takes the deepest breath: letting it fill him. Move through him.

You realise you haven't moved a muscle since entering - not wanting to disturb a delicate moment. You almost feel as though your part in this tale is over, for better or worse. The brothers have found one another again. Clyde is home safe. Human once more.

You don't know where you fit. Whether you should just...leave, now. Forget this little trailer; go home and sleep and move on.

But then; your heart tugs. Clyde's lips purse as he breathes, a blush illuminating his cheekbones as he opens his eyes: and it's not that easy.

Is it ever?

You run a hand through your hair; letting your fingers tangle in it.

Breathe.

"Okay" you sigh, reaching to reassure yourself. "Okay."

Jimmy shuffles into the kitchen, the opening and closing of doors and wooden creaking follows. He returns with two Budweisers - twisting off the caps and handing them out. Usually, you might not take to it: but seriously, fuck it.

A beer is going to be the least of your problems.

Jimmy palms his car keys; heading for the door with no warning.

"Goin' somewhere?" Clyde asks.

"Yep. Store. Since you went out for a run around for three months, you ain't got any food to eat. Nothin'. Less you're good for creamed corn and more beer."

You wince. Not exactly a welcome home feast.

Clyde freezes midway to his beer bottle touching his lips, as though interrupted from a thought: but he pushes his lips together into a thin line. Picking at the label as though something is weighing on him, toying at the label with his thumb.

_Sit down next to him. Come on. For goodness sake; he was practically chewing your neck a moment ago._

With a sigh, you take a swig of bitter beer: dodging around the coffee table and plonking down next to Clyde. He shuffles, eyes down. Moving his blanket to cover him further in the knitted cloth.

Jimmy puts his hand on the doorframe, turning and pointing his keys at Clyde.

"Debrief her. And when I get back" he licks his lips "you better bet I'm gonna need a debrefin' of my own, in some fashion."

And then...well, the door closes.

And you're both alone.

* * *

 

_Shit shit shit shit._

There's too much to take in: too damn many things Clyde Logan is wrestling with on his little scratchy sofa. It rubs his bare skin; too sensitive from his shift. Clawing and suffocating. Burning. But to be _home_ is something else entirely. It's his, his own space: it smells of him, feels just like he did when he left it. If he stops to think too hard; God. He's gonna just...

He shakes his head, pressing the bottle of beer to his lips. He can't suppress the quiet moan he makes at the taste of beer - cold, rich, delicious. Bitter and tangy and not at all raw meat: not even close to raw, bloody meat. 

He'd probably enjoy eating anything that isn't gristle right now. He'd eat goddamn _raw spaghetti_. So long as he never, never ever _ever_ , has to eat another cube of whatever they were feeding him.

Maybe he'll go vegetarian. Ignore his wolf brain.

Stupid, stupid wolf brain.

Clyde turns to watch you paw at your shirt; twiddling the strap on your tank top as though in distraction. God...do you _know?_ Do you _know_ how his heart has been right up in his throat, beating right out of his chest, ever since he first glanced at you? Ever since he shook from fear in that little cage? You just...you're too much. Clyde has always felt too many things, too fast - not enough room on his lips the sentiments that rip through him; preferring to bite down on them and hold them there.

But _you_. Even in silence on his little couch: you hold him steady. Make him centered.

Make him human.

And it's only been two days.

God.

"I just wanted to-"

"You know, I've-"

You both cut off at the same time; Clyde's eyes widening as his lips curve upward. The combined laughter is luminous: it's the first laugh he's had in three months. It shoots straight through him - right to his core.

 _Home_.

"You first", you offer.

Clyde shuffles.

"Thank you. For...everythin'. More than everythin'. I wouldn't..." he stumbles, breathing sharply. "I ain't good at this, but...I was..."

He can't get the words out, and _crap_. Crap. He's swallowing, hard. He doesn't want to cry: not now. Not while there's so much to celebrate.

"It's alright. I know it's a lot to take in, and...I'm just glad. Glad you're okay." you smile, eyes bright as you move your hand to skim at his shoulder. Ever so slightly tilting your wrist to brush on a patch of bare skin not quite covered by his blanket.

He tenses.

_Mate._

Okay. Where the hell did _that_ come from?

"So...you're a werewolf. Real life werewolf."

Clyde nods, taking another sip of beer.

"Real life werewolf."

"Born like that, or did you..."

"Born."

"And Jimmy?"

Clyde snorts at that one.

"He got lucky. Ma used to say he got the gene, but it ain't...active. Got the good sense of smell but not the shiftin'. Never lets me forget."

You laugh, tapping your nail against your beer bottle. The smell that radiates off of you; it's starting to ebb into the room, just a little. This...this calmness. Gentle. He can smell that you're starting to calm down: smell that you're getting comfortable.

He's starting to think your scent might make him anything but. Because he's got this itch at the back of his neck; a very _certain_ itch. Localized. Focused on this one specific spot.

_Ignore it. It'll pass._

"Get the sense that wasn't the last of your questions" Clyde hums, putting down his beer on the coffee table with a click and leaning back some against the chair.

"Full moon stuff?" you ask.

"True. Can't help it."

"But you can shift back and forth when you want, every other time?"

Clyde snorts.

"Sure wish. Might've not needed the rescuin' party. Mostly got some control over it, but changin' back gets hard when I'm stressed. Frustrated."

_Frustrated._

His hand reaches up for a brief moment: he goes to scratch his nape on instinct and has to forcibly stop himself. It throbs in protest, keening at his focus on it.

Something akin to a shiver licks up his spine.

"And..." you flush lightly; twiddling your feet as you shift on the couch "...okay, weird one, but...when you were passed out, you were sort of...my neck was..."

He...

He _didn't_.

No. No, no no.

God. _God_.

Horror is stark in his tone: his eyes wide as his blood runs ice cold. "Did I bite you?! Darlin', did I break the skin anywhere?! If I did, I...Oh shit-"

"-No! No, honestly, you didn't! You were just sort of...sucking on the skin. Nipping a little. It wasn't _unpleasant"_ you say hastily, before licking your lips "I mean, I'm not saying...I didn't mean..."

God, this is a fucking mess.

Clyde groans, running his hand over his face. Okay. He didn't. Bite you. Breathe.

Still: he could have. Could've done it on instinct; broken the skin on your neck with his teeth in his unconscious state and-

And ruined _everything_.

Scenting you is bad enough. It's not becoming; it's him staking a _claim_ on you, some filthy wolfy claim that Clyde _knows_ isn't fair. You haven't agreed to this; but his mind? His mind has just acted on instinct. Smelled another man hovering and compelled him to rub up all over you, to let you know he's the Alpha wolf. It's a bad sign - it's a _really_ bad sign.

"Clyde?" you say softly: concern delicate in your voice. Inflections dart, your scent rising in the air. There's this tart undercurrent that pulls through - his head spins. It's...he's suddenly half-hard and he knows, he knows he's screwed, he's dead in the water. Because right as he looks up at you, you wring your lips.

He's not in control.

"Your eyes, Clyde. They're golden."

He shivers.

He's _screwed_.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	5. But I can't make you mine it is true

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde's humanity is fleeting - but he has bigger problems.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally delivering on that explicit rating boyoooss

Clyde remembers the very first time he shifted.

Eighteen; too big and clumsy, all joints and muscle and fumbled promises. He'd been sick with _something:_ anxiety fluttering deep in his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling of their little country house. Clyde's bedsheets were too scratchy, his pillow rubbing his neck raw. And the itch, localized on the back of his neck - Christ, the _itch_. He'd grated it raw with his fingernails. But something in it was shooting fire straight through his blood; electricity and flame.

It licked straight through his veins, down, down. His heart was hammering, sweat on his brow as he twisted in his skin.

And that wasn't all.

He couldn't so much as breathe for the fire that gripped him: desire so hot and strong that there was no earthly word for it. Inhuman: an inhuman, raging torrent of need with no direction, no target. He could only strain. Whimper. Bite down on sobs that shook his bones as he pumped furiously, hand slick with endless spend. So sensitive and yet nowhere near sensitive enough to make him feel relieved - pointless and endless. A sickness that reverberated right down deep in his _soul_. How many times had he come, now? How many times had he wiped his palms clean, only to drop the tissue with a groan and find his way back between his legs?

He doesn't remember.

He doesn't _want_ to remember.

But now: his eyes slipping from brown to gold, his cock clenching hard in his blanket - he does.

Oh, he does.

* * *

You set your beer down on the coffee table; eyes lingering on Clyde's shivering form. His throat bobs, yellow eyes glassy - glassy as though he's biting down on a thought, trying to grapple with it as it fills his frame. His lips are trembling ever so slightly under the weight of it, sweat on his brow as he moves just a little on the couch.

The shuffle - it does _something_ to him. His teeth bare as he groans; honeyed eyes rolling up to his brows as he moves under the blanket. God, is he shifting? Is he...Are you on borrowed time?

"Let me help you. What can I do?"

Clyde's eyes travel slowly to yours, expanding as they do. Pupils swallowing up that beautiful gold as his throat bobs: his hips canting.

Whether from pain or something else, you can't be certain.

"Darlin'" he rasps, teeth sinking into his lip. "Don't you go sayin' that to me. You don't know what you're offerin' there."

Ice packs. Beer. Food. A hand to hold? Maybe more. Maybe you'd jump off the damned roof if Clyde Logan would be there at the other end. And that thought is fucking terrifying: the way you'd drop anything, everything for a man you barely know. As though everything has changed.

"I know how much it means to you to be back here, to be-" you swallow "-human...again. I don't want-"

"Ice."

"What?"

Clyde's eyes squeeze shut.

"Ice. In the bath. Cold water in the--"

That you can do. You shoot up; knocking your knee on the little coffee table and bounding away from Clyde, straight through a nearby door. Flicking on the little lightswitch, you find a small bath - fringed by an off-green shower curtain and surrounded by bottles of expensive shampoos. Coconut, honey, sea-salt. No wonder his hair looks so damn glossy. The porcelain tap is crusted with a little rust from disuse, but you give it a red-hot go, clenching your teeth as you put your back into it.

Right as the tap begins to give; you hear your name. Just your name - bitten off in the place between a moan and a plea. The sound of it...it's desperate. Lonely and wanting and hollow; every reflection that glimmers in Clyde's eyes tangled into the most human of sounds. And even though you know that Clyde's in pain, stuck between shifting and hurting inside: your whole core throbs with the sound. Undressing you with his voice, somehow. Guilt hits you at the desire that courses through you: this isn't the time, you shouldn't be thinking of him like this. He's just...

 _Focus_.

You poke your head out from the door frame; hair trailing as you grip the flaking paint.

"Clyde?"

_"Don't look."_

It's breathy - punched from his chest as though his heart isn't really in it. As though it's the whispered pleading of someone entirely resigned to something shameful, something that he has no agency over.

You shield your eyes in the crease of your palm: heart thrumming as the world dims. You can hear Clyde's breathing coming in thick pants; the slapping of skin, or... _something_. You're not sure what to expect. What the hell is normal, when dealing with werewolves? Is there any precedent to even begin to understand what's happening to Clyde? You doubt it. You highly doubt it.

"M'so sorry you-" he gasps "-there ain't words for how-"

His groan is long, _thick_. It cuts through his sentence like a knife.

But you don't need him to thank you - you don't need him to apologize. In the brief time you've known him, he's been endlessly sweet. Kind. Humble and grateful - right from the get go. And anyone, _anyone_ , should be honoured to be trusted with these secrets. 

"You don't need to thank me, Clyde. You know that."

There's a brief pause: Clyde's breathing growing ragged. Sharp.

" _Shit_. Sweetheart, m'gonna s-shift back. Can't hold it off."

No! Your heart clenches in your chest; a lump in your throat as you keep your eyes squeezed shut. This was supposed to be his homecoming. Supposed to be your chance to get to know him.

Supposed to be more than just a stolen moment.

"I can leave" your throat bobs "if you'd prefer, I can-"

"-Please. _Please don't leave_."

You nod; the pain colouring Clyde's voice making your veins ache to comfort him. Reach out to him.

"Still me" he says quietly, softly. "Remember that. S'still me in here."

And then - then his bones snap. He cries out in pain; clicking fills the room as sickly crunches reverberate around you. You drop your hand from your eyes - and you wish you hadn't.

He's on his hand and knees, his body jolting violently as it pops and ripples: elongating, fur rippling across his bare skin. His nose pushing outward as his broken sob shifts into a high-pitched whine, the little blue throw rug that used to cover him now useless, barely sitting on his shoulders.

It's so horribly sad seeing him like this. The pain must be...must be utterly excruciating. Raw. 

You move towards him in gentle steps, careful not to startle him as he collapses against the cushions of the couch. His form utterly dwarfs it: his paws dangling onto the coffee table as he huffs and whines like he's _miserable_. Defeated and in pain. You can't help but reach out with your fingertips as you approach, the tips of your fingers lightly carding through the soft fur just below his ear.

He immediately leans into your touch. Golden eyes welling with pain. With sorrow.

"That looked like it hurt."

Clyde huffs.

"You know" you laugh quietly, twiddling his fur around your index finger "if you're ever strapped for cash, I could always shave off some of this spare fur. Bet we could set up some quality deals with rug companies."

He puffs air from his muzzle, and the expression on his face...God. So human. Mirth in his eyes as he rolls them; enjoying your ministrations. The touching and petting is clearly so fulfilling for him, after so long in isolation.

His ears suddenly prick up: turning back and forth as his eyes dart to the door. You follow the gaze. Waiting.

After five or so seconds, it swings open. Jimmy's hands filled with plastic bags. His eyes widen nearly immediately, the sight of Clyde covered in fur taking him off guard. But then--then, his face scrunches. Hard. His nostrils flare, sniffing the air as he tries to drag something into his lungs. You can't smell anything, really - just the scent of Clyde's usual cologne-y skin and generally warm house-type smell.

But Jimmy clearly does smell _something_. It registers on his face; his mouth slowly dropping open.

"Oh no. Oh _shit_."

Your brow creases. "What?"

"I can taste..." he swallows. "Clyde, tell me I ain't smellin' what I think."

Clyde won't meet his eyes.

* * *

 Starlight glitters down as Clyde puffs air from his muzzle, letting the scents of the night wash over him. Somewhere a few streets over, he can hear the stuttering of a car engine: the hooting of an owl high in a pine. The dirt beneath his paws is like heaven after so long. Like itching a scratch that had managed to burrow deep under his fur: a need being filled he never realised he had. He needed to get out of the house - just for a short while as Jimmy cooks up whatever the hell sort of welcome feast he planned.

Get away from the scent of your skin driving him up the damned wall.

It's ridiculous. He's never smelled anything that brought him to his knees quite so quickly: without ventilation, your scent had engulfed him. One moment, he'd been sitting back and enjoying a beer. The next...

Well, the next he was cusping on a full blown rut.

And because he couldn't...could satisfy that need enough, his body had wound tighter and tighter. He'd try to relieve it by sending you off to run the bathwater, tried to palm himself and let out the shameful fire in his bones. But of course: of course you'd walked back out. And his damned wolf-brain had taken the wheel.

It's beautiful and terrible and perverse and torturous. 

So Clyde pads around the garden, pacing and snapping at branches in frustration. Keeping his need occupied by giving into primal instincts of digging and pacing and sniffing.

Seriously; this is just _stupid_.

_"Jimmy?"_

 Clyde's ears prick up at the sound of your voice - shooting warmth straight through his paws. The concept of you being alone with Jimmy, even if it's just cooking dinner - it's like setting his damned brain on fire. So he tugs at a nearby branch; trying to snap it in half as he listens to you through the walls of the house.

There's a clanking sound: a spoon hitting a pan.

_"Mmmmm?"_

_"Weird question: what was it you could smell earlier?"_

Clyde's blood runs just slightly colder. His ears throb.

_She needs to know, sooner or later._

And he's just...not going to do it, is he? He had every chance to just explain himself. Had every chance to tell you what he feared, what he felt.

_Maybe she could want you, too._

No. Clyde crunches down on a branch and twists his head, growling as it severs. He's not going to embarrass himself like that. Why would someone like you ever even care for Clyde Logan? All he's ever done is--

_"Was wonderin' when you'd bring that up."_

There's the sound of a seat being pulled across the floor of the kitchen: a drawer opening. Cutlery clatters.

 _"I ain't an expert, so don't take this as gospel"_ Jimmy says. _"But werewolves ain't got the same way of dealin' with needs as we've got. Sure, they got things like hunger and thirst, but when they neglect it, they get pretty wild pretty fast. Causes all kinds of stress - makes 'em prone to shiftin' or huntin', makes 'em literally hurt inside. And one of those we've got but they've got way worse ain't...easy to come by. When you're alone. In a cage. Pent up."_

A little sound hitches in Clyde's throat. Mortifying. This is mortifying.

There's a pause that throbs in the air: followed by a sudden intake of breath. Realisation.

_"Oh. **Oh.** "_

Clyde just whimpers.

_"We call it ruttin'. There ain't really an equivalent for humans - but werewolves get it bad. Real bad. When they smell someone they're...they find a good match, they can get real frustrated. And if they ain't able to distract themselves, or if they're feelin' stressed; it kicks off a rut. And then they've gotta...gotta try to reproduce, so to speak, or it feels like they're bein' burned from the inside. Gets 'em so desperate that they ain't functionin' for a week or so. If they don't do nothin' about it until then, it'll pass. But it's hell for 'em. Ignorin' the most powerful instinct they have."_

_"And Clyde...I..."_

_"Sure smells like it."_

 

 You groan: the sound of your hands running over your face. Oh no. He should've realised you'd feel guilt for putting him in this predicament. And of course, he could never blame you for it. You saved him! He wouldn't be here without you.

 _"He was worried he bit me"_ you say " _before."_

Jimmy snorts. Rushing water as he strains the spaghetti in the colander. 

_"Old wives tales. He's got somethin' of an infatuation with the idea that bitin' someone on the neck when he's ruttin' will pass on the curse."_

_"And you think..."_

_"I think my brother pays too much attention to crazy old folks and reads too many fanciful stories."_

Clyde bares his teeth in the night air, licking at his muzzle. Of course Jimmy thinks it's just a story. Of course he does. Perhaps if Clyde was lucky enough to have his gene be inactive, he'd afford himself the luxury of not believing it.

But if it's all just fanciful: why does every dream Clyde has of women and mating and rutting come with him biting down on that soft patch of skin? Why does he feel the urge to do it so strongly that it keeps him up at night? That its been in every filthy fantasy he's ever had?

The door clicks open, sliding across as light shines across his fur. He blinks it away to see you standing in the doorway; coy smile on your lips.

"Spaghetti puttanesca for dinner" you tell him "Jimmy reckons it's a favourite of yours."

Clyde's heart patters at your silhoutte in the doorway; his paws dragging him to you as he trots over. His tail moves in swoops, but he keeps his head fairly low. There are things not said clinging to your lips: and Clyde can't prompt them from you when he's like this. Your scent swirls around him as you step aside to let him in; it coils in his belly and flits about, fluttering in his veins. The only thing stopping his rut from coming back in force is this shift, these small distractions. But it might not last.

In fact, he knows it won't.

You close the door behind you both and collapse onto the couch: Jimmy scoots onto an armchair, pasta in hand. He knows Jimmy might want him on the floor, but he'll be damned if he's not sitting right next to you. He pushes himself up, collapsing down and curling himself up. His paw dangles over the edge, his hind legs draped on your lap. You laugh; setting down a steaming bowl of spaghetti on the arm of the chair. Precarious, but easy enough to keep steady with the help of his lone paw.

His stomach grumbles as he snaps at the spaghetti, ferrying it into his mouth with his tongue and slurping it up. He knows it looks absolutely ridiculous, but he'll be damned if this ain't his first rodeo. It tastes like absolute heaven; the moment it enters his mouth Clyde's tail sweeps back and forth, his muzzle getting covered in sauce as he gobbles it like a wolf possessed.

"Made way more than that, in case you got a lil' hungrier than I'd assumed runnin' around in the garden."

And for all Clyde's territorial gripes with Jimmy: he reckons he might be able to forgive him just this once.

* * *

 

It's not much later that Jimmy yawns and palms his keys.

"Might get on home and get some shut eye. You're welcome to stick around, no doubt."

Your eyes widen as you shuffle on the couch, watching Clyde's ears prick and his throat bob.

"I wouldn't want to be an imposition on either of you."

Clyde's head immediately snaps around to yours, his yellow gaze marred with hunger and need; but also something softer. A pleading, too. A need for contact that bypasses all shame and goes straight to begging you to stay: a need that lights up a dizzying feeling in your stomach.

Jimmy chuffs a laugh.

"Reckon that ain't even remotely a problem."

Jimmy cleans up the dishes and grabs up a few servings of pasta to take home: his keys jangling as he says his goodbyes to Clyde. There's something more cautious in the way Jimmy handles him right now: more cautious than he was this afternoon. As though he's aware Clyde's a little threatened by him, a little on edge.

He doesn't move to hug you, either.

But he's grateful - they both are. Jimmy promises he'll stop by tomorrow afternoon, or he'll give you a call. Whichever is preferable.

Whichever puts the least strain on Clyde.

And then, Jimmy is gone. And you and Clyde are both alone.

"And then there were two" you breathe.

Clyde licks his muzzle nervously.

The atmosphere shifts catastrophically. There's this tension that hangs in the air, that shifts between Clyde's shoulderblades and sits itself deep in your spine. It's nameless - but it's not unfamiliar. It's the feeling of things unsaid, things implied. Wanted. And those feelings, those thoughts? They'll have their time. You hope. But now there is only a numb exhaustion, a need to let sleep take you over and softness brush against your skin.

"I can take the couch" you say quietly, picking at your fingernails. "Or...I mean, we could take the bed. I know you've been alone, and I know how much you like to have someone with you, and I--"

_And I know I don't want to leave you just yet._

Clyde hops off of the couch with no effort, yellow eyes glinting in the low light as he pads towards the corridor. He looks back, throwing a nervous glance over his shoulder at you: puffing out a sound as he flicks his muzzle towards his bedroom door.

_This way._

You flick off the lights in the living room and follow Clyde down the corridor, into a little room. Neatly made up: soft blue blankets on a queen sized bed, old stained wooden furnishings. It's fairly barren in here, save for some photographs blu-tacked to the wall, now slightly faded from time. A little old alarm clock blinks red numbers; a mug that says "I <3 Blennerhassett Island" filled with cheap looking pens balances on a dresser.

"Homely" you nervously smile.

Clyde's eyes shine at that.

You nip to the bathroom quickly while Clyde busies himself doing whatever it is he needs to. You squeeze some toothpaste onto your finger in a makeshift attempt at freshening up, giving your face a little wash as you read some of the labels on Clyde's various shampoos. Pulling off your shirt and skirt, you grab an old threadbare shirt from Clyde's laundry basket - a huge red t-shirt sporting the phrase "Born To Run" that dwarfs you, reaching down to your mid-thigh. Experimentally, you give it a little sniff - and oh. It's just...it's just Clyde. Soft cologne, spice. A little hint of pine.

Those butterflies in your stomach ripple back through you as you sigh, turning back to the room.

"Okay" you say, scratching the back of your head "so I've borrowed this, if that's..."

Your brain goes totally, utterly blank.

Clyde's bed is now covered in soft looking blankets: most seemingly materialising from nowhere at all. Pillows from the couch are propped at the headboard, stripe-side up and arranged almost methodically. There are at least six different knitted throws, knitted blankets: each one padding the outside of the bed as Clyde wrestles with a scarlet one near the foot of the bed. He snaps at it, pawing it as it stretches out an arbitrary amount. He looks strangely satisfied.

When you close the door; he shoots up. A whine in his throat.

"Well we certainly won't have any issues with frostbite."

He moves to the edge of the bed, craning his head as he softly opens his jaws. His huge teeth gently nibble the corner of your palm as he leads you forwards; bringing you to then middle of the bed with earnest eyes. You don't begrudge him it; your heart pounding as you pull back some of the blankets and slide between the cool sheets. _Everything_ smells of Clyde - a delicate scent that sparks in your blood.

Once he's satisfied you're safe and warm, Clyde shimmies between the sheets with you. There's something so cautious and gentle about it - something in his movements that make you think he's worried you'll run off. Worried this is just some sort of mistake.

His huge body collapses onto the mattress with a thud, soft fur brushing the skin on your thigh, on your arm. There's a yawn that erupts from his jaws as he drapes his good paw over your waist; nudging you a little closer with the flick of his paw. It's so soft, so comfortable - the sound of his thrumming heart beating on the pillows. If you think about it too hard, it draws this nervousness in your throat.

_"Remember that. S'still me in here."_

You stare at the sharp line of his muzzle, watching as he licks his lips. His eyes flutter open; gold spilling through the space between you. Holding you there in a moment.

Exhaustion rears itself as you feel a numbness taking over; a haze of safety and calm washing over you.

"Good night, Clyde."

And right as you drift off, you feel the softest pressure against your cheek. The smallest nuzzle through your hair; wispy breathing in your ear.

Everything else can wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Find me on Tumblr!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	6. You keep me from sleeping and strengthen my will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde's needs are simple, and you're there to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made you wait for it but ITS HERE ITS HERE  
> I've been pretty sick so it's taken some time but I hope you find it worth the wait my dudes  
> It's a bit a/b/o (duh its werewolf based) so if thats not your thing heres your warning

Warm.

You shift under the soft blankets, feeling more comfortable than you ever have. The mattress creaks a little as the smallest slivers of morning light pool at your eyelids. It takes you a second to get your bearings; you're used to a colder, brighter room than this one. Used to waking in the mornings with a shiver. Alone - always alone.

The events of yesterday are like a dream: they pulse and fluctuate in your mind as you try to work through them. Spaghetti, green shower curtains. Red blankets and Budweiser and...

_Clyde._

You can barely wrap your head around it - sleeping next to a huge, hulking wolf. In the middle of the night, you'd felt him breathing softly through his muzzle; an occasional snore. He constantly seemed to wiggle a little closer to you, cover you in his massive body - and you'd been grateful for the company. For the warmth.

So you move your cheek against him, feeling soft fur brush against your cheek.

Except...wait.

_Wait._

His skin is hot against your bare arms, sweat licking at toned muscle as it beads at his bare chest. Black locks of hair tickle against your cheek as you jerk back - heart pounding in your ears.

The blankets around him have been disturbed, giving a clear view of the fact Clyde is somehow _impossibly_ human. In the middle of the night, he somehow must've shifted, must've gained the ground to change back. But his eyes are squeezed shut, almost too tightly in a fitful sleep: his bare hand curled around the thin layers of sheet that cover the bed. Pasted in sweat as though he's feverish - as though something is coursing through his blood that is burning through his skin.

But God, he's just so _handsome_. Even now, even in this moment, morning light seems to reach out to cradle him. Sharp planes and thick lips; all dark and light, rough and smooth.

If you'd told yourself a week ago you'd be waking up next to _this:_ you'd never have bought it. Ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous.

His lips draw together, forming a thin line as he suddenly gasps out a breath. He rolls to his side, facing you: his hand dipping below the blankets. A shudder passes over him. He wets his lips, his hips canting, breath growing thicker.

Is he...

No. He can't be. He's asleep, right? He's _asleep_.

His spine seems to straighten in the dim light: the mattress creaking. You don't want to disturb him, but his face...it's positively _green_. He suddenly looks so drained of all colour that it makes your heart ache, makes you feel fearful for him. Whatever thoughts or nightmares or feelings are rushing through him right now are causing him intense pain: you want nothing more than to comfort him, to tell him this, too, will pass.

So you croak out a cough, hoarse from sleep, and lightly bring the back of your hand to brush against his bicep.

"Clyde," you whisper "shhh, you're okay. It's okay."

The sound he gives in response - _oh._ It's almost inhuman; something between a growl and a soft whimper as he rouses slowly from his stupor. He almost seems to float back into his own body at your touch, his hips stilling and his eyes slowly dragging open. Familiar chocolate-brown warmth is scarce, chased away by a blackness that swallows it up. His pupils are so dilated that his eyes feel vast, empty: oil slicks and deep space straight down in his soul. You notice the side of his neck is dark red: a rash stark on his skin, tracing a line from the base right up to his jaw.

You hold his gaze, swallowing hard.

"Look at this". You move your hand to guide his eyes down to his bicep, to the warm, pale skin of his arm. "Do you remember it?"

He squeezes his eyes shut; throat bobbing.

"Didn't even feel it."

"...How?"

"Happens," he says hoarsely "when...when things ain't...when I'm..."

Your brow creases; hand retracting. It comes away damp from Clyde's sweat, smeared against the tips of your fingers and smelling of that faint cologne smell. How does he always smell so damned good? Aren't werewolves supposed to smell like wet dogs? Didn't Twilight cover this at some point?

"You're burning up."

Clyde's hand moves from under the blankets to his forehead, dragging the back of his palm against it. It shakes and trembles as though he's on a caffeine drip; when he pulls it away, he examines the freckles on his skin as though he's checking for _something_. He keeps swallowing back something lodged in his throat: his teeth working the inside of his lip. The rash that lingers by his jaw looks angrier by the minute; with delicate fingers, you reach out to brush it-

He _moans_. It's unmistakable - it's not the moan of someone with a tender rash. It's dripping with lust, with wanting, with a desperation that is eating him alive. His whole form ripples and shakes, even after you pull away; like you've flicked a switch you can't turn off, deep in his gut.

Oh. _Oh no._

The sweating. The temperature. The dilated pupils and the hip canting and the-

" _It feels like they're bein' burned from the inside."_

You clap your hand to your mouth, shooting upward to sit. Guilt hits you like a bullet train; it claws at your heart and it settles in your stomach as the blankets shift down around your waist.

"Oh...God Clyde, I..."

You stayed in his bed overnight - for gods sake! Your scent is everywhere, all over this room: its on his shirt you're wearing, in these sheets.

On his skin.

Jesus; it's _torturing_ him. He looks so, so pained.

"Darlin'," he pants through gritted teeth "s'not your f--"

He's cut off by a choking that forces from his throat; his eyes roll back as he throws his arm over his eyes. His fist comes down to grasp at the covers, tight and hard: shaking with exertion as though he's holding the weight of the whole bed in those five fingers. He curses under his breath; shifting his hips under the blankets as though in discomfort. You can imagine why - imagine what that sensation is. Why doesn't he just give himself some relief? Is he...embarrassed? Shy? You can't imagine those things stopping him with how _desperate_ he is.

"I'm hurting you just by-"

"-Don't you go sayin' things like...like _that_. I asked you to stay, knew it might...this ain't anythin' but me."

But it _is_. It is.

You can help him, though. It's a problem that is almost a non-problem; almost nothing. Because there's a solution he isn't seeing, a solution that is there and plain. A solution that makes a heat settle in your stomach, that makes butterflies flit at your vision and a giddiness sit in your chest. He's gorgeous, and kind, and soft, and god; he _needs_ you. His body is red-hot with desire over _you._

"I meant it," you say, sniffing and running a hand through your bed hair. Clyde watches the movement: brow creasing as he blows air from his nose.

"You ain't, for goodness-"

"-Clyde, no. _Yesterday_. I told you: I want to help you. I know..."- shit, why is this so difficult? - "...Christs sake, why am I dancing around this? Jimmy told me about this _issue_ and I'm here for you. Whatever capacity. Any capacity. Just tell me what you want me to do and I'll do it."

At your words, Clyde moans; his hand trembling tightly on the blanket. His face flushes red - and for the briefest moment, you swear gold bleeds into the brown around his pupils. Just the smallest fleck, the briefest of moments.

" _Please,_ " he groans, licking his lips "darlin', I'm...I'm beggin' you. I ain't...this ain't...I don't know if I can handle bein' your charity case over t-this. Can't handle you doin' this out of kindness, even now. Even if-"

He squeezes his eyes shut, craning his head into the pillow as his hair splays out around him. His whole body shudders: breath shaking in his chest as he takes it in through the fabric of the pillow. You can see it in the way his hand fists at the covers - how much _need_ is coursing in his blood.

"I can help you," you swallow thickly. "Clyde, don't torture yourself. Let me."

His knuckles turn white as he groans; long and thick.

"I want this. Not just to help you. More. And I know it's stupid, and we've just met, and we've not even..." you huff a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head "...I was going to say we've not been on a date. But I'm in your bed - I've met your brother. I'm wearing your shirt for God's sake! Fuck, Clyde: I want you. For you."

" _God_ ," he curses, thrusting upward into the mattress. His form seems to pulse; his hand loosening and pressing onto the mattress to push himself upward just enough. His eyes stay trained on the pillow, lips parted and sweat dripping.

"Please, darlin', I need...need you. So much. Jesus, so much. Hurts like Hell."

Oh yes. Yes.

Tentatively, you let your fingertips glide over the muscles of his back - slowly trace against the sweat-stricken skin of his shoulder blades. Under your touch, you feel his body tense and release; feel the rivers of sharp muscle in his back straining under the stress of this burning need. Your heart thunders in your ribs, your body throbbing with electricity and anticipation.

Desperate to see him let go.

And after a few wandering strokes, a few gentle touches - he _does_.

You can barely even blink before you're flat on your back, splayed against the pillows of Clyde's bed as _his_ hand supports his weight, pressed firmly against the pillow under your neck. His thighs slot either side of yours; thick, huge things that dwarf your hips where they sit on either side. The muscles in them jump and tremble under his weight, shuddering and dripping sweat across the bare skin of your thighs.

Deep, golden-yellow eyes find yours: muddied by a blackness that swallows all colour. Clyde's jaw is tightly held, vice-like as his lips tremble and a bead of sweat drips from the tip of his nose. You can make out every freckle - one that sits above his brow, two more smattered on the curve of his cheekbones. A constellation just a ways from his plush lips, bitten at by his thick waves of hair that dart wildly.

Gold traces downward; taking in the shirt on your form, the thin cotton underwear sitting at your thighs. On it meeting that junction, Clyde gasps something under his breath - and wet warmth drizzles onto your trembling legs. It's enticing enough to follow his eyes, follow them to that sticky spot, dripping to the sheet beneath you--

Oh.

Fuck.

You should look away. Should. But he's harder than anyone you've ever seen - unbelievably thick and long and hard. Flushed red and straining; leaking more precum than you've ever _seen_. It drizzles onto your leg - and whether from incredible desperation or his natural inhuman physiology, you can't quite decide.

Either way: the anticipation has you soaking through everything. Right down onto the bed sheets.

"In my shirt" he chokes shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut. Warmth and wet once again on your leg. "My scent's all over you. All over everythin'. Christ..."

Your breathing is a little more ragged, impatience finding you as your hand traces up his bicep.

"Off or on?"

He swallows.

"Wish I could say on" he rattles off, the hot skin of his cock coming into contact with your leg. He moans through gritted teeth: a tight thrust on the skin there smearing precum across it. "W-wish I could handle havin' you all covered in my clothes, in my--" his breath hitches. "F-fuck, please, everythin' off. Need to be in you. My blood's on fire and it's burnin' me, burnin'--"

You hush him with a gentle sound, knees knocking as you pull your shirt up over your head. 

"It's alright. Let me just take these off, and I'm all yours."

He moans.

"You're sure?"

You throw the shirt over your shoulder; pushing up your bra over your head and letting it join the pile on the floor.

"Yes."

You press your hands on the band of your underwear, pulling it off in one fluid motion and kicking it out of the way. Exposure hits you hard and fast; but Clyde's hungry gaze eats it away. Burns it, until you feel nothing but the warmth of his skin, the desperation in his eyes. He's not moving, though - his lips are softly parted, breath coming in sharp pants straight from his chest.

"Do you..." you reach up to cup his cheek "...still want this?"

And in response: his lips crush to yours.

It's fierce and sharp and wired and passionate: fire and brimstone, the taste of sharp cologne and something tangy. His tongue licks into your mouth hungrily, desperately bringing you into him, bringing you closer until you arch into his touch. The feeling makes his body ripple, brings his hardness rubbing between your legs in a way that makes him release such the sharpest breath.

You realise, in the heat and blur, his only hand is supporting his weight; so you slip your hand between your bodies, angling him just so that when he thrusts - he sinks down.

Sparks fire in your vision; red-hot and beaming bright as Clyde's hard cock parts you - your breath catching as your eyes flutter.

Clyde groans, uselessly cursing as he shifts up: pressing against you and nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. Dark hair tickles your face as he huffs into your pillow - trying to take it in, take in the utter and encompassing pleasure. Your legs shift as he reaches his hilt; tears beading in your eyes from the threads of pleasure and pain spilling into you perfectly.

"Oh God" Clyde rasps, slipping out of you ever so slowly and then pushing back in "feels so good. Can't explain-"

"-Yes" you shudder " _yes,_ Clyde."

 Electricity spills over your skin as his lips press to your neck, his bicep shaking as his thighs knock into yours. The sound is _rich_ ; slapping thickly in time with his whimpers while he moves his hips. It's just...so much. Too much. Filling you like nothing else ever has, your whole body an exposed wire.

Occasionally, his thrusts get a little overeager - in the throes of the moment, Clyde will slide out; waiting a second to re-angle before pushing back in again with an 'oh' that lights you up.

"S-sorry darlin'" he stutters, gasping "just so good. So beautiful, so good and I ain't-"

His sentence is broken off by a moan, twisting in his throat as you move your hips to angle him deeper. It makes his teeth sink into his lip, makes his eyes redden and water from pure pleasure. 

"Shit. Wish I could be touchin' you r-right n-ow. Make you - Christ - make you cum on me."

Oh.

Starlight dances in your vision as you do that on his behalf; reaching down and rolling your clit on your thumb. It's enough to make you clench; enough to make your muscles try to pull Clyde deeper as you make a keening sound.

"This is incredible. You're incredible, Clyde."

He bobs his head in a nod quickly as your toes begin to clench, his thrusts growing deeper, faster, more urgent. Darkness threatens around you, a feeling on your skin like fluttering swimming across the surface.

"Oh Clyde," you gasp "I'm-"

And just like that, everything snaps.

Pleasure radiates around you in pulsing, moving light - tingling across your skin as you clench and unclench around him, gasping and moaning and floating out of your own body. It's bliss: boneless, endless bliss that licks flame at your skin and flutters in your throat.

Clyde's hair frames his face, thin sheen of sweat running over his skin as he thrusts desperately, full and close and eyes nearly rolling right back.

"Fuck. Don't think-" he groans, shaking wildly "-oh god. Oh, fuck. M'gonna pop one. Stay as s-still as--mmmmnh--still as you can."

Your hips still as you lay back, still dazed from your orgasm. Is he just speaking nonsense? Is that-

OH.

Clyde makes an inhuman sound - a keening sob that pulls from his lips as his nose nuzzles your cheek. Your body yields to _something_ : a pressure, a swelling growing at the base of his cock that stretches you slowly, that makes you gasp and makes Clyde groan endlessly.

Okay, so your life is clearly a fanfiction now. You've scrawled through Tumblr enough at two, three, four AM to have read about this.

Jesus Christ. How is this your life?

It's a knot: hot and warm and full, stretching you and making you teeter desperately on the verge of another orgasm. Holy fuck - it feels _so good._

And right as it stops stretching, Clyde groans again. Your name is punched from his lungs in a heavy breath; cum filling you as he peppers sloppy kisses on your lips. They're tangy and sharp: tasting of something strange, something tart and sugary - experimentally, you let your tongue into his mouth, tracing it softly.

Sharp. His canine teeth poke your tongue; far longer now than you remember them being. Far longer than they look to the eye.

"Clyde-" you murmur into his mouth, ready to ask.

But your body betrays the thought.

Clyde's knot presses on _just_ the right places - it pulls you back down, down, down: your muscles fluttering around him as darkness and colour trace around one another, fire licking through you.

_"Jesus Christ!"_

His cock twitches in tandem: more cum filling you, dripping into you impossibly as he tries to thrust his hips. He's in as deeply as he can go - but still, still. His body wants more.

As it does - as it does, Clyde seems to get distressed. He lowers himself, resting his full weight on his injured forearm and pulling his hand up to his lips. This seems to be an uncomfortable position for him: but his fingertips press up and massage his gums, touch at his prolonged teeth.

"No..." his brow scrunches,his breathing erratic "...no, no, no..."

"Clyde?"

His knot clenches; his eyes roll back. Hips stuttering as he places his forearm over your chest. Not quite resting his weight on it, but angling it: angling it so that it covers your throat, your collarbone, your shoulder. His knot feels like heaven; filling you and stretching you in a way that should feel impossible.

"Please," he begs, black hair darting across his face and eyes wild "just...don't move! I'll h-"

And then, he bites down on his own arm.

He moans and twists and thrusts and cants like something else; tears on his cheeks as his teeth dig into the flesh of his forearm. You can see the way his elongated canines push into pale flesh - genuinely puncturing his skin. His dilated pupils seem to retract with every passing second. Gold seeps into the black as Clyde holds in place, moaning and thrusting lightly all the while.

Maybe this is the biting thing coming around to get you all over again - him chewing on your neck yesterday, but in far grittier detail. Or perhaps it's his transformation pulling at his conscious, forcing him to use pain to keep himself here. You don't know - you can't be certain. But you reach up to run your hands through his thick, dark hair; petting it to soothe him. It's so soft to the touch, soft and smooth.

And in that moment, golden eyes watery and staring up at you: you can see that wolf in him. See the pleading, the vulnerability. Softness.

"You're okay."

Keeping his forearm in his mouth, he slowly begins to roll to his side. It tugs on the knot just a little; enough that a jolt of flame licks through you. But you follow him, rolling in tandem until you're sprawled over him while he lays on his back. He looks thankful for it - he moves his injured forearm up to move a strand of hair back behind your ear.

And after a short bought of silence; you hear the sound of his teeth leaving his skin.

Where his canines punctured it, silver webbing seems to move outward as though from an injury. You've seen videos of people who've been hit by lightning on Youtube; they look like tree roots, spinning over the skin from a ground zero. And this is...this is that. Smaller, lighter; but following veins or nerves or _something_. No bigger than two bottlecaps. There's no blood, no visible wounds: just that.

Clyde presses his forehead against yours, lip trembling. He looks wounded; tired. But sated, too. Like that fever isn't killing him anymore.

"The bite" you whisper, swallowing thickly "what was in it?"

Clyde sniffs.

"I reckon that," he breathes "is what Jimmy calls ' _fanciful stories'_."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a wild ride oh my god
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr, tell me whether you're enjoying my hecking borker of a story! He's a good boy! YES HE IS! YES HE IS!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	7. You have many names and all of them sealed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every wolf needs his pack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've missed you guys so much! I'm so sorry! Expect more regular updates from now on :)

The light has shifted when he stirs.

There's a quiet pattering of rain on his window, a silhouette of grey peeking through the curtains of his little room. Clyde's eyes flutter open to take it in, seeing the numbers on his clock blinking in scarlet red.

2:16pm.

Well, there goes the morning.

The muscles in his stomach ripple as he pushes up, blue blankets falling to his hip and pooling about. In the mirror opposite the bed, Clyde's reflection sleepily takes him in. Sleepy eyes and wild hair frame red lips: swollen from kisses that you peppered on them and lavished them with. He can't help himself as his fingers reach up to trace the place his moustache meets the bow of his lips; he follows it, breathless for a brief moment. 

The corners of his mouth twitch, and his reflection flushes scarlet, eyes dropping as he swallows. It feels like a dream - it should be a dream. But how could he have ever dreamed of something like this? 

How could he have ever dreamed of someone _like you?_

"Darlin'?" Clyde whispers hoarsely, taking in your scent as he flares his nostrils. So sweet on the roof of his mouth: sweet enough that he shivers, an ache in his chest that makes him reach for the imprint of your form on the covers. It's oddly stale; he frowns as he tries to pick up any sign of you, any notes in the air that indicate how long ago you left the safety of his den.

Den? Tracking you like a bloodhound?

He wipes his sweaty palm over his face and takes a deep breath.

_Ain't any sense left in the world._

He moves out from the blankets slowly, letting his naked body adjust to the cold air. His thighs are unbelievably sticky; in fact, the whole area below his waist is just...tacky and pasted in an unbelievable amount of dry cum. It should be horrible - should be something that makes him feel gross and unkempt. But the smell of you, the smell of what you did to him--

He'll shower. He'll shower in a bit. He's just going to...going to throw on some tracksuit pants. He'll shower once you're accounted for.

Honest.

He wrestles with a pair of faded, grey tracksuit pants. He has no idea how, but his rut is all but faded out. Heightened senses still linger in his periphery, but he's not keening for your touch and burning up inside. God, knotting you must've done something incredible for him. Something he's never been able to find before: fulfilled his need so much that he's come out the other end feeling strong. Utterly satisfied.

What is it about you, exactly? Your scent, your body, your touch? He staggers up and finds his way to the door, stretching his shoulders and kicking several blankets that have fallen to the floor under the bed. Is there something in your blood? Something in your genetic code? Drawing you to him like he's drawn to you?

Maybe you're like Jimmy. There's something in you, buried deep down.

His jaw aches as he stumbles into the kitchen, shielding his eyes against the harsh light pouring through the back door. Rain drips down the glass, condensation already starting to form as he moves by, following the trace of his form. He must still be running hot as he blinks sleepily, massaging his jaw with his fingers and surveying the trailer with a growing pang of anxiety.

He calls your name, wavering on his feet as he nudges open the fridge door with his amputated arm. Spaghetti is in the fridge in a tupperware container, a pitcher of ice cold water staring him down.

Yes. Jesus, he needs that.

As Clyde flips open the top and tips fresh water back into his mouth, the fridge door slowly begins to drift shut.

And he notices something that smells...

Smells like _you_.

He lets the pitcher down on the countertop, eyes drifting to the note tacked to the fridge with a magnet.

The handwriting is scratchy, written from a drying out pen on some old printer paper. He can almost see the trace of your fingertips on the paper; the way you shook the pen halfway down the page, cursing under your breath as you leaned against the counter:

 

> _Clyde,_
> 
> _I'm so sorry to leave like this. I have a shift at work and money's pretty tight right now - when isn't it, though?_
> 
> _I thought about waking you, but you looked so peaceful, and you've been through so much. It was pretty hard to get you to let me go: you kept wrapping your arms around me and murmuring my name. Absolutely adorable._
> 
> _Pasta's still in the fridge: should still be good. I had some last night but there's plenty left._
> 
> _My number's on the back of this paper, if you still ~~want~~ need ~~me~~ my help. Let me know how you're going whenever life gives you the time to do it!_
> 
> _Feel better soon,_
> 
> _xx_
> 
>  
> 
>  

 He pulls it from the pink fridge magnet, reading the sloping handwriting over and over. His stomach twists with every loop, with every way your wrist lightly brushed the paper. The little kisses at the end - butterflies just fluttering at the base of his spine.

Hold on.

Last night?

Clyde's eyes flicker to the window, his nose taking in the rich smells of the earth beyond the panes of glass. It's...oh gosh.

He's been asleep for longer than he thought. Out like a light, sleeping off his rut. At least a day - totally dead to the world, sleeping through god knows what.

Shit, no wonder he's so sticky. Did he...

_No. Ain't no time for this._

He flexes his bare chest, taking a deep breath in an attempt to focus. Okay. This is. Okay.

Being human after so long, being thrust back into reality alone - it suddenly hits him hard. Standing in the middle of his narrow kitchen, slight whiffs of your scent swirling in the air: his heart stutters with something strange. Outside, rain lashes on the walls of his trailer, sticky summer weather that beats in time with the sensation in his chest. It's like he's trapped in a photograph: unmoving in the soft light, uncertain of where to turn to next.

So it surprises even him when he pushes your note to the soft skin of his lips. Tracing your name onto the page as he lets the sweetness envelop him.

What he'd give to have woken up to you in his arms as the rain pattered on the glass.

Clyde isn't sure how long he stands there for: material of his pants sticking to him, paper tracing over his mouth as he tries to find some semblance of normality. Long enough that the sudden cracking of a fist on the door makes him jump out of his goddamn skin and curse under his breath.

"F--I'm, hold on!"

His heart thrashes, bare feet padding on the cold floor as he moves through the kitchen and into the living room: praying to anyone who's hearing that he's not about to answer the door in crusty pants to anyone important. God, okay, has Jimmy been paying the cable bill? If this is the tax guy picking a bad time to swing by, this ain't exactly gonna be a happy meeting.

He twists the deadbolt, his hand then falling to the doorknob as he slowly pulls the door open...

And is immediately engulfed by arms and legs, jumping onto his torso with such force that he staggers back and yelps in surprise. Familiar scents catch in the air, a bright pink shirt catching in his periphery as two plaited pigtails drag at his shoulders.

"CLYDE LOGAN!" Mellie cries out, giving him a hard shove as her boots find purchase on the floor. He huffs, staggering a little as her pinched brows pull downwards into a deep scowl. "What the hell were you thinkin'?! WERE YOU EVEN THINKIN' AT ALL?!"

Clyde's mouth curves into a frown, no words coming to mind as her grey eyes bore into him; seething anger rolling off her skin in sharp pricks of scent. He can't deny the sense of joy that tangles up in his throat, almost choking him up, but he's more than a little worried his sister's gonna tear out his windpipe with her teeth.

"I--"

"--What'd I say 'bout him bein' in a delicate state, Mellie? And the huggin'? We went over this..."

Jimmy's blue flannel shirt sticks to his skin as he eyes Clyde with a wariness that hangs in the damp air: head dipped a little low. Even from a distance, Clyde's scent must be strong as anything - Jimmy's stance is all hunched, as though to fold in on himself as hard as he can. It satisfies something deep down in Clyde. Something he's not sure he likes or approves of: wolf brain telling him to puff up, to make it clear he's in charge.

But he doesn't do any of that, as the cold air stings his broad chest.

Because wolf brain is a stupid. Because wolf brain has spent too long over the last few months in the driving seat.

But more than anything: because Clyde loves his brother.

So he throws an arm around Mellie's shoulder, grabs Jimmy by the scruff and pulls them both into the warmest hug he can. He burrows his nose into their shoulders and for the briefest of moments, he lets the comfort of finally being hugged wash over him. The sensation of being back here again: with his pack, with his family. The people who have loved him through and through.

Mellie makes a little sniffling sound at the back of her throat.

"Just did my mascara" she laughs, choking a little "now it's all runnin' everywhere."

Jimmy chuckles against Clyde's arm, his nostrils clearly flaring in the grey light. Once Clyde feels his throat starting to pinch in the threat of tears, he lets them both go.

"So" Jimmy licks his lips,  smirk forming at the corners as he tousles Clyde's hair playfully. "Considerin' you ain't tryin' to bite my head clean off, I'm reckonin' you're...feelin' more than a little better."

Oh, right. _Now_ he remembers why Jimmy's such an asshole.

Warmth flushes to Clyde's cheeks as he sucks the inside of his lip, taking a step back to gesture for them to come inside. Mellie's mouth twitches knowingly, but Jimmy just leans against the door with that shit-eating-grin Ma would've chewed him out for.

"I can still lock ya out, y'know."

Jimmy just gives a shrug and tucks a metal fob of keys into Clyde's palm.

"Yeah, yeah. You're the boss, Clyde."

It's good to be home.

* * *

A hot shower works wonders for everything.

He's forgotten how good it feels to stand under the warm spray, to let it envelop his skin and soothe his aching muscles. He remembers nights trapped in that little cage that had made his paws ache from being forced to hold his weight on them when they'd humiliate him in that little box: how much he'd wished he could just stand under warm water and let it wash away months of tensed muscles.

He pulls on a grey t-shirt that fits a little too snugly and a pair of threadbare shorts, his hair still dripping from the spray as he leans over the sink.

Across the tap, perched on the porcelain delicately: his metal arm finds balance on the fixtures. It's the arm of a familiar stranger - the man he knew before time took away his human form.

But now he pulls up the sleeve, fixing the prosthesis on as he's done a thousand times before. The strap connects, metal suctioning to his skin. And as his fingers slowly move, he can't help but feel more human than he has in the longest time. Present and here and real. The joints in his metal hand click as he tests them, getting used to the fit that was once closer to familiar. He experimentally grabs at the doorhandle as he makes his way back to the living room: the response is immediate, a clicking of metal on metal as he turns the brass with a flexing of muscle.

Mellie chews a piece of gum on the edge of the couch, Jimmy on the armchair tucking into a piece of charred toast as he watches the rain come down.

"Still workin'?" Jimmy asks, wiping a crumb from his mouth as he dusts his spare hand on his cargo pants.

Clyde twists his hand, flexing the metal joints and nodding to himself.

"S'been sittin' under my bed for the last few months - found it in the car on the passenger seat. Once we started fearin' you'd gone off, I picked up the spare key from the bar and kept the car and everythin' at mine. Wallet's in the glovebox. Gave her a cleanin' too: her backseat was lookin' pretty festy."

There's a pause that lingers in the air; the sound of Mellie's gum cracking in her teeth.

Clyde's throat tightens.

"I ain't even sure where to start" he admits; shaking his head as he moves around the coffee table. The sofa dips under his weight, the dripping of his hair running down the cushions he didn't quite grab the other night. "I'm just so...I know we ain't always been together, ain't always had it easy--"

"Clyde--"

"--But I'm luckier than I ever took to thinkin'. Luckier to have y'all than I can even explain. You've taken care of everythin', and I don't know many who'd do that sorta thing."

Mellie brushes a manicured hand against Clyde's bicep, minty breath sitting in his nostrils.

"Us Logan's stick together. Always."

Jimmy scratches the underside of his chin, nodding slightly as he puts his plate down.

The room descends into a comfortable sort of silence, rain slowing to a light drizzle as Clyde's leg bounces on the spot. Emotions roll through him like the passing of a current; he can smell anticipation curling in the air, his siblings hesitating on what to say next. 

"So--" Jimmy starts.

"--How's the bar? How are ya? How's Sadie?"

Jimmy makes a chuffing noise of disbelief, scratching his head as he smiles.

"Sadie's great - her report cards are lookin' real good. Better than ever. And bar's good. I've been doin' the day-to-day, and Bobbie's been pickin' up the weekends when she can. The locals've been askin' left and right about where you've gone - so we've been...improvisin' on that front."

Ah shit.

"Improvisin'?"

"Yeah, uh...well, you know how you've taken to a love of hikin' lately, up in Idaho? And you ain't been in contact with anyone, 'cause you're doin' a Bear Grylls?"

Clyde growls.

"No..."

"Well" Jimmy chews his lip nervously "you'd probably start rememberin' the highlights of that trip. Soon. Real soon."

Clyde runs his hand over his face, huffing into the skin and wiping off the drips of water from the shower.

"You've gotta be _kidding_ me, Jimmy."

"Didn't I tell ya?!" Mellie hisses, leaning forward "We shoulda gone with my story!"

"And rehab raises less questions than hikin'?! What's he sayin' he's in there for, Mellie? For smokin' crack?"

Clyde groans, wiping his thumb over his brow.

"I ain't never even _been_ to Idaho."

Mellie smacks her gum. Jimmy leans forward on his heels, pulling his plate into his lap as he spreads his legs.

"And how am I supposed to answer when they're startin' to bring up my face's been on the Boone County Police reports? Ain't these stories in conflict if you've been offerin' up your wallet to find me and assurin' everyone I'm safe?"

Jimmy raises his palms and holds them up in the air, spreading them in an arcing motion.

"Bear Grylls."

"Jimmy," Clyde snaps "Bear Grylls is not an answer to me bein' missing for three goddamn months." He shakes his head, blinking incredulously "what in the goddamn is a Bear Grylls, anyway?"

"He's a guy from TV," Mellie waves her hand dismisively "s'far as I know, he drinks his own piss."

_"Language."_

Clyde runs his hands through his hair, huffing anxiously. Okay, this is okay. He can figure this out. Jimmy's one of the smartest people he knows - Hell, he might even be _the_ smartest when he puts his mind to it. It'll work itself out, right? It's not an unbelievable story - Google was made for this sort of stuff.

Well, not this exact issue, but...

"I'll sort it" he sniffs, "s'alright."

And then, in the wake of the silence: Mellie asks the question. The one, fatal question that makes Clyde's chest throb, that makes him shiver in his skin. That makes him turn back the clock, rewinding to regrets that have curled in his spine and twisted in his gut. On those cold nights in that cage, whining into the bars: he tortured himself with the memory.

Mellie toys at her pigtails in one hand, and with the other she gives Clyde's shoulder a gentle squeeze. She can likely sense his apprehension, sense his anxiety: she may have been the lucky one that never got the genes, but she more than makes up for it in the empathy that guides her actions every time.

"Clyde," she cocks her head, smiling in that way she does to placate him "I know it ain't pleasant, but...we need to know."

"Yeah" he sucks the inside of his cheek "I reckon' you do."

* * *

_3 Months Earlier_

 

When he closes the bar that night: he's shivering in his skin.

Spring does this - it demands from him more than any other season. Summers make him tired, thinner and sleepier and more likely to neglect his care. In the autumn, he's desperately hungry, desperate to hunt. Winters see him bulking up, see him running in search of someone to hold in the long nights.

Spring brings with it feelings of decline. Of waste, of loneliness: leaves him feeling the acute isolation of his breed. Sure, he loves his family, his friends. The locals at his bar keep him occupied, and he feels a sense of purpose in it - but what of a _pack?_ He knows others like him are out there somewhere; he's met a few, in the youth of his life.

But God: all he wants is something _real_.

He could drive home; could take the short trip back to his trailer. Try to do something to distract himself from this itching that has come to take him. Perhaps he could drink it away, or just...set up that boxing bag he's been meaning to hang for a while.

Maybe he could.

But the shivers start to escalate: he feels the pull that tries to snap at his ankles, and he's suddenly acutely aware that he's shifting here. Now. He has no choice.

So he swings open the car door with clammy hands, tossing out his wallet from his jeans and desperately tugging at the straps on his prosthetic. It complies and slides off, his reflection catching in the rear-view mirror: golden eyed, flushed with panic.

He tosses it down onto the seat, trying to pull off as many of his clothes as he can. He's halfway through pushing off his second boot when his hands snap audibly, pain radiating through his bones as he gasps out. He throws a look over his shoulder, checking again that every last punter has scattered off. The thread on his jeans starts to pull, and he laments that he absolutely loves these damned jeans.

Ain't gonna do him much good now.

They rip audibly, forcing a choked sound from his lips from the pain and the pressure of it. It's a horrible symphony of muffled sounds and snapping joints as he stays hunched over the driver's seat, paws elongating and fur sprouting from his skin.

Shit. _Shit._

He's almost _never_ been forced to shift this violently - it's catastrophic. He's left trembling as he tries to grab the scraps of material from his shift in his mouth, tries to ferry them back into the car and tuck them under the chairs so that it doesn't look like he's been butchered outside his own bar: but it's a messy affair with only a muzzle and no thumbs. He's far too big for the car and he feels pressed for time: he needs to get out of here before he attracts any drunken attention.

Once he's satisfied he's done enough, he nudges the car door shut with his head: swooping the keys up in his mouth and skittering over to a spot under the decking of the Duck Tape that he can stuff them into. He'll come back for them later - and if he doesn't, there's a spare in the office. 

He's several streets away from open woodland - he'll have to run through the sidestreets and keep to dark alleys. The risk of it makes his paws itchy, makes him wrinkle his nose and lick his muzzle. Okay. If he's lucky, he can sprint for the woods: find his den he's made deep in the valley and sleep this off.

By morning, he might be back on two legs.

Every step at a time.

He huffs the air, trotting through the backstreets between houses. Keeping to the shadows, not willing to pick up any pace in case he becomes too confident. He needs to be tasting the air with every movement, in this vulnerable state: any human could see him and cause a stir. Alert authorities - could realise he's too large to be anything but a monster.

A car passes, and he drifts below a pine: yellow eyes squeezed tightly shut as his breathing picks up. Anxiety doesn't shift away with his skin, and that's a bigger gripe than anything these days.

So once he sees the woods, he makes a break for it.

The scent of damp earth, cool grass - it awakens something primal in him as he dashes, pine needles pricking under his paws. His tail swoops lowly, eyes watering from relief: thank God, thank everythin'.

He runs and runs and runs, deeper and deeper, until the pines form a canopy and the starlight barely pricks through. He runs until the ground turns rocky, picking up speed, at one with the feeling of--

He _screams_ in pain as something slams into his side, hard as anything. Metal careens into his ribs, golden light flooding to his fur as he's sent skidding across the dirt track in what feels like an endless rolling. He hits a tree stump with some force, whining from pain and shock as his lungs try to inflate but can't quite, can't quite do it. Oh god, shit, he can smell burnt rubber, he's shaking from fear and a pain in his body as he wheezes, coughing and chuffing--

"Fuck!" someone yells, their shadow cast across his prone form "Think I hit a bear!"

Clyde tries to stagger up, and the man takes several steps backward: but he can't seem to put weight on his feet. He's too lightheaded, his eyes growing cloudy; the pain's starting to fade, and he's acutely aware that shit, he's...he's more likely to go into shock than most humans, and he's...he doesn't want...

Please no.

A man with red hair bends down: staring Clyde down and wincing as he puts his weight on his knees.

And then his eyes widen.

"Nick," he waves his hand "call Prescott on speed dial. Get him to bring the containment truck on the highway. Think we've got ourselves another werewolf down here."

And then the world goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that ended a little sadly, but I thought it was *so* important to build on Clyde's story here. There wasn't much reader interaction, but I'm building to something and I'm EXCITED!
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com) and tell me off for being so mean to my gentle boy!


	8. You're a city that's pulling me still

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clyde takes you on a date (because he's soft like that).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise bitches, bet you thought you wouldn't be seeing an update for a while  
> But then I got really really excited to write this one  
> So  
> You're welcome

Drawing on chalk letters isn't your forte.

The blackboard squeaks, hot sunlight on your collar as you try to make your 's' look less like a wibbly snake. Boone County has woken to something of a heatwave; blue skies and hot pavements making the diner you work in dead of foot traffic. Joanna's promotion to discount a dollar off of any milkshake is probably a wasted attempt, but whatever. It gives you something to do to look busy.

Your skirt trails, apron dragging as you stick out your tongue and rub at a flick that won't keep itself down. Damn, you should've tried harder in art. This is useless.

"--and she's been takin' from the cash box. So anyway, remember Teddy, from Jimmy's year at school? Well: turns out he's been up t'no good of late, see. 'Cause he was the one gettin' her to pick out the savin's for some ill-conceived gamblin' thing upstate--"

You peer around the blackboard to sneak a quick glance at the woman who seems to be debriefing about all the gossip this side of the county: and you're met with strappy brown heels and denim shorts. She flicks back her hair, still speaking as her walking partner slows behind. His sneakers scuff on the hot concrete, freckled legs shining as his shorts cling to his hips.

And like a flash, you're on your feet.

_"Clyde?"_

It blurts out of your mouth before you can stop it - his name, laced with emotions that stir in your chest. Its been four days since you last saw him; four days of waiting for him to call, text, whatever. And though it shouldn't bother you...

It pinches at your throat. Seeing him dressed up in a faded blue t-shirt, hair cut a little shorter: just...walking down the street. A pretty girl wrapped around his arm.

Brown eyes regard you with plain-faced shock. Clyde seems to stumble for words, nostrils flaring, all pouted lips and stuttery breaths. The girl with him eyes you with an unreadable expression: lip twitching as she runs a hand through her hair.

The three of you existing in a moment. Waiting for Clyde to speak.

He says your name, red rushing to his cheeks in a flush of colour.

"Gosh, hi," he licks his lips, swallowing hard "it's, uh...it's great to see ya."

The lump in your throat won't abate, but you put on your best winning smile.

"You too. Feeling better?"

Clyde really does go red then: from the crook of his neck to the barely-visible tip of his ear. His eyes drop, mouth twitching.

"Much."

The girl next to him scuffs her boot on the sidewalk, her brows quirking in amusement. She motions to you with her forehead, folding her arms and giving Clyde a firm stare.

"Oh! This is Mellie. Mellie, this is--"

"--I know who she is, Clyde!" Mellie beams, looking you up-and-down "And ain't you just as pretty as my brother said? You're a breath of fresh air 'round here."

Clyde scratches the back of his neck, looking over his shoulder in sheer embarrassment.

"Jesus, Mellie..."

Hold on. Brother?

OH.

You laugh in relief, lungs squeezing air as your body shudders with blessed thanks. She's his sister. His sister! Of course! The resemblance is there, somewhere: she looks a little more like Jimmy with her thin lips and pinched nose. But something in her set brow and sharp eyes...yes. _Yes._

_Thank God._

"You're so sweet. Honestly: it seems like every time I blink Clyde's got a new brother or sister showing up. Beginning to think he's related to half of Boone County."

"Oh trust me, you ain't hearin' the half of it. On our Uncle Joe's side we've got six cousins, and then three step-cousins, and that's not even includin'...well, safe to say our Ma and Pa just havin' us three was a lot easier on Gramps' heart."

You can tell you'll get along with Mellie just fine.

Clyde's scratching has moved around to his chin, stroking at the hairs there as he sucks on his cheek. He raises up his other arm: metal glinting in the sunlight. A prosthetic, you realise: some fancy looking arm that moves as though it's the real thing, fitting to his skin seamlessly. It's...fitting, somehow. A part of him you never really considered that just makes perfect sense. With it, he shields his eyes from the sunlight and takes a long look up at the sign for the diner.

"S'a nice place."

"And you're a terrible liar."

He laughs at that.

"Hey, listen...m'sorry I didn't text ya. I was...Y'see, what with gettin' everythin' sorted in the bar, and me sleepin' like a log--"

"It's fine. Really."

"Nah, it ain't. I don't want you thinkin'..."

Clyde's apology stutters out as he kicks a rogue pebble with his sneaker, and Mellie's eyes roll with such exaggeration and theatrics that you can't help but bite back a laugh. Clyde glares at her as though he's seething through his skin: sniffing loudly and clenching his fist.

"Dinner," he says quietly.

You pause. "What?"

"Did you..." he sucks his lip nervously "...dinner? Want to go to dinner...with...me?"

His nervousness is just so adorable that you feel your heart flutter, your hand picking at some loose threads on your apron as you smile.

"That'd be great. Really great, actually."

His eyes meet yours, and the resulting smile...God. Dimples press into his cheeks, crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He tries to snuff it out, tries to bury it, tries to use his teeth to tug his lips back down into a nervous line: but it's clearly running away with him, too far gone now to properly control. His eyes shine bronze in the summer sun, watery with hope and something resoundingly soft.

"Tonight?" he says excitedly, lost in the moment. He seems to remember himself as his smile falls a little. "That is...I mean...it's fine if..."

"Well I don't clock off until 7..."

Clyde tries to look unfazed. "Oh."

"But if you don't mind waiting, I can be ready for 8? Just need to shower the smell of cheap coffee off."

Oh. There's that thrumming in your heart again. There's that beaming smile pushing at his soft lips.

"8 is great. Want me to stop by, pick ya up from your place?"

Usually you'd insist it's fine - you're perfectly capable of getting there yourself. And y'know, relying on someone to get you home...if the date goes south, you've lost your escape route.

But there's this look in his eyes; this hopefulness. Perhaps it's just the way he is, or perhaps it's his way of paying you back - but somehow, it just feels like he needs to be needed right now. Needs you to give him a few little cliches.

Humanizing, maybe.

You nod, pulling out your pen from your apron pocket. Clicking it, you bring the end to your lips and tap it there for a second.

"Give me your wrist."

Clyde's lips open in...what, exactly? Surprise? Anticipation? But with a flicker of a hesitation he offers you his good arm. Blue veins trace patterns in his warm skin, little freckles weaving through the muscles in his arm. He smells so damned good that you could just--

You clamp your legs together, shaking the pen and testing it a little on his wrist. It moves smoothly: so you take some time to write out your address. There's a warmth emanating from him that feels so lovely; even in the heat of the sun, the touch of his skin sends something through your bones. Something impossible to explain.

You're almost oblivious to the way his eyes follow you, his throat bobbing. His pulse grows stronger the further through the street name you get. By the time you click the pen and pocket it, his muscles are tense enough that you might just snap him in half.

Mellie whistles, making you both snap from the reverie.

Embarrassment hits you square in the face as you step back, shuffling in your skirt.

"Uh...so, yeah. Just follow the highway down from here and you'll find it."

Clyde's still _staring_ at you like you've just produced a goddamn tiger from your pocket. His chest is rising and falling at some speed, nostrils flared. Mellie's brow crinkles in concern, and for a moment you're worried your flirting has pushed him a little too close to the edge. If he shifts on the sidewalk outside your diner...shit.

But he closes his eyes for a moment - sucking the inside of his teeth and balling his fists up. Breathing deeply. It takes him some time to work through _something_ \- something strange that seems to take control of him for a brief infinity.

When he comes back to his body, he chuffs a quiet, disbelieving laugh. Eyes heavily lidded, he shakes his head.

"Y'know, I've got your number, right? Coulda just texted."

A cheeky grin finds its way to the corner of your mouth.

_"I know."_

* * *

 "So, what's he like?! Tell me everything!"

The phone crackles as you shove it between your shoulder and chin, balancing it as you click the buckle in place on your little black shoes. Marie's excitement is palpable: nothing short of ecstatic that you've found yourself a date.

"He's...nice."

"Nice?" she says incredulously "nice?! He's not a brand of yogurt for Christ's sake. Is he hot? Big six pack? Does he have a massive c--"

_"Marie!"_

You stand up with a huff. Taking the phone in one hand, you rummage for your lipstick on the dresser. Red? Red seems good. Can't go wrong with the classics: little black dress, pretty buckled shoes and dark red lipstick. Nerves sear through your blood, excitement and fear and anticipation swirling into one big mess.

"What? Can you blame me for being invested in the _happiness_ of my best friend in the whole wide world?"

You roll your eyes, puckering your lips and trying to get good coverage.

"I don't see what the size of his..."

"So you _have_ seen it!"

The doorbell gives a harsh trill, and your heart picks up to about three hundred miles an hour. Saved by the bell, maybe?

"Look, I've got to go. He's here."

"Have fun! Be safe! Don't forget to w--"

You hurriedly hang up before your mind has to be polluted by wherever that sentence was going - spritzing on some perfume and grabbing your clutch bag. Excitement flitters through your veins, a skip in your step as you open up the deadbolt and twist the handle.

Clyde looks every bit a gentleman ready to sweep you away. Navy-blue button up shirt firmly ironed, crisp pants and black boots. His hair is all soft and shiny in the porchlight: in his hand are a bunch of beautiful flowers, the stems crushed in shaky hands as the paper crinkles in his grip.

His nerves are clearly shot as chocolate brown eyes shyly meet yours.

And his jaw visibly drops. Frozen in place as he looks you up and down.

"Hi there."

You hold the doorhandle sheepishly, watching as he swallows thickly.

"Uh..." he stammers, eyes wide. "...hi."

Neither of you move from the spot: your fingers drum on the door.

"Everything okay?"

He nods; slow at first, then with certainty. He holds out the flowers to you, letting you pluck the wrappings from his grip.

"These...These are for you. Don't know if you like purple, but they're awful pretty, and I saw 'em, and I thought you'd...like 'em. 'Cause you're pretty, too..." Clyde bites his lip in frustration, running his metal hand through his hair. "That sounded way better in my head than it's soundin' right about now..."

Lilacs. Pretty purple ones that smell beautiful in the evening air.

"Oh, Clyde. I love them. You're such a sweetheart."

His eyes light up at that.

You quickly rush to put them in the sink, filling it with water and leaving them to soak. They'll look beautiful on the coffee table tomorrow, soaking up the morning light.

And then you're both out in the night air, the porch light bathing the woodwork in a warm glow as you make your way to Clyde's car. The red paint is faded in places, you notice: it's not quite a carriage, but it's enough to be here with him. He darts out ahead of you, moving to open the door to the passenger side and help you in with an open hand.

You take it, flashing a smile.

"Gentlemanly" you laugh.

Clyde bites down on the curve of his lips as he gets in, turning the key and letting the engine stutter to life. The radio chitters as you fold your hands in your lap, breathing in the scent of his gorgeous cologne. You didn't think it was possible for him to smell any better than he already did, but...

His eyes drift to you - hungry, soft. Nervous. You pretend not to notice at all, even as you slowly turn to him.

His gaze snaps away as he shuffles.

"How was work?" Clyde says sheepishly, hand on the gearstick while his metal fingers stay clutched to the wheel.

"Boring. Honestly, I was just glad to get out of there. You know how many times I counted the small change in the till, just to give me something to do? And the counter's probably shinier now than the day it was fitted."

Clyde chuckles. "Bet yours is cleaner than mine. And that's sayin' somethin' - looks Jimmy had the bleach on it every damn day I was..."

_Away._

He sucks his lip, looking out the window at the passing traffic.

You shift the conversation.

"Owning a bar, huh? How'd you end up doing that?"

"Well, after the military I figured I needed somethin' to keep me occupied. Saw it goin' for sale for pretty much nothin': old owners had run it down. Bad shape. So I bought it and did most've the repairs myself. Personal project."

"Seems like you've got a real passion for it."

He chuffs a laugh, sniffing. "Yeah, guess you could say that."

Comfortable. This is just...it's nice. The two of you together like it's the most normal thing in the world: no cages, no shifting, no burning needs. Just two people going on a date: two people being alive together.

The radio chatters something about the weather; Clyde's hands rest on the wheel, shuffling around as though from nerves.

You're feeling something of that yourself.

"We're going somewhere nice?" you ask.

"Mmmmhmmm."

"Any clues?"

Clyde chuckles. "No need - we're already here."

The car pulls into a small parking lot - a little, warm building with green shutters directs your gaze. Ivy climbs up the brickwork, green leaves curling around the windows as though to frame them. It's lovely: homely feelings in your chest as Clyde reverses into a free space.

You're giddy with excitement and hunger by the time the car putters to a stop - and sweet, gentle, wonderful Clyde briskly walks to your door, opening it with a careful hand. You can't help but grin as he offers you his real hand: it eclipses yours as you step out into the night. It twitches, clammy and sweaty from his nerves as he shoots you a nervous smile.

Both of you make your way through the doorway of the restaurant, and _oh._

It's _beautiful._

Garlic braids hang from the ceiling as the room, candlelight flickering on each table and bathing the walls in a golden hue. Quiet instrumental music plays in the background, adding a charm to the scene that makes you feel right at home.

A man in a pressed white shirt greets you, hazel eyes and a kind smile flicking to yours.

Clyde clears his throat, nodding to the ledger in the waiter's hands.

"Should be under _Clyde."_

"Of course" the waiter smiles, all softness and professionalism. "Right this way."

He guides you both to a table right at the back of the restaurant, just tucked out of the way next to an ivy-laden window. He sets down two menus, and Clyde pulls out your chair with a flex of his arm. You gratefully sit back in the seat, watching as the waiter pours two glasses of water and leaves you both to look over the menus.

Gourmet pizzas, marinara pasta dishes, bread baskets. Melanzanne alla parmigiana, pollo alla romana...

God, this is _fancy_.

"This is _lovely_. How'd you find it?"

Clyde's lip twitches, eyes reflecting the flickering light as it softens his features. In this light everything about him seems to glow, illuminating every freckle on his face, every wave of hair as it falls to his neck. He really is beautiful, somehow. If you'd been asked to come up with a textbook example of a werewolf: well, it's not exactly like his face would've come to mind. Someone grizzled: hardened by something animalistic.

Nothing like the handsome sweetheart opposite you.

"Mellie recommended it. She's been jumpin' about this all afternoon..."

You take a sip of cold water, smiling at the thought.

"It's sweet. Your siblings are sweethearts, you know."

Clyde grunts. "They have their moments."

"They seem pretty understanding of everything, y'know? I mean, it's like nothing phases them about it."

He sucks the inside of his cheek, flipping through the menu with a sigh.

"Think once I shifted they felt so bad about havin' dodged the gene that its always made them feel a lil' guilty. Well, less Mellie, but Jimmy's always tryin' to make it up to me. It ain't necessary, but..."

"...But he still feels like he got off lightly."

Clyde nods hesitantly.

"Ain't his fault. S'just life."

"Being a we--"

You're cut off as the waiter returns: all smiles as he takes your orders and sets down a bottle of champagne in a bucket with some ice. Clyde's love of pasta is obvious: he jumps at the chance to order a tomato pasta with bacon and a basket of breads for you both. You go for a carbonara - simple, but delicious. 

Clyde stiffens as the waiter pours your glass of champagne, laughing at a terrible bread-based joke you come up with. He seems to lean into you as he plucks up your menu, wide eyed and polite nods.

Even as the waiter leaves the table, Clyde's eyes darken and follow him. Watching like he's seething inside, bubbling under the surface.

Gently, you move your hand to cover his, breaking his reverie.

_"Hey."_

Clyde blinks away the feeling, shaking his head and taking a deep breath.

"Sorry," he says quietly, shame heavy in his voice. "I ain't used to feelin'..."

His brow scrunches, and he starts again.

"That ain't a part of myself I like. Ain't one I'm used to, neither. Smellin' someone else fawnin' on you just gets me all sorts of worked up...still tryin' to figure out how to deal with that."

You stroke his thumb with yours; meeting his eyes in the warm candlelight. There's a vulnerability in there that you just...can't help but feel such sympathy for. Clyde tries so hard. What must it be like, being that alone? Not having anyone who truly, genuinely understands?

He sniffs, chewing the inside of his cheek as you pull back. Carefully, you lift your glass, taking a sip of champagne from your flute. It's delicious: warm and bubbly, rich in honey flavours. Some of the bubbles try to escape up your nose, and Clyde laughs quietly as he pours himself one.

"Okay, so here's a question: what _do_ I smell like?"

Clyde raises his brows, taking a big swig of champagne and biting on a smile.

"Where to start..." he scratches at his beard with his metal fingers, as though in thought. "Y'know when it's the first day of spring, and it's been cold all winter, everythin's been all rainy and frosty and...and then there's this _mornin',_ this one ordinary day, and it's like the air's tryin' to tell you there's better things comin'?"

You swallow, nodding.

Clyde licks his lips, eyes fluttering shut for a second.

"It's like that, except...more. So much more. Can't even properly explain it." He looks at you with something darker, then: something that makes you ache, deep in your stomach. "I ain't ever smelled anythin' like _you_. Never smelled anythin' that makes me want--" He cuts off, then, his fingernails digging grooves on the table.

"That good, huh?"

Clyde bites his lip, nodding.

"Crazy good."

The conversation is interrupted by your plates being set down: steaming hot pasta and crusty breads that look fresh from the oven. Your stomach growls in agreement as you take the first bite, twirling fettuccine on your fork and trying to get it to comply.

Despite Clyde's lack of coordination with his prosthetic, he's practiced enough that if it weren't for the clinking sound, you doubt you'd even notice.

Everything is absolutely delicious: so delicious that you get a little lost in eating before picking up where you left off.

"I always thought werewolves would smell like wet dogs, you know. I mean..." you wash down a stray piece of spaghetti with some champagne "...I read Twilight when I was fifteen and I'm sure they covered it."

Clyde chuckles as he chews, brown eyes alight.

"Jimmy says I smell like someone rubbed a forest floor on me. I ain't sure it's a compliment."

"What?!" you gesture with your fork, swallowing. "You smell lovely! You've got this...spicy cologne smell. Sticks to your fur too."

At that, Clyde pauses mid-chew.

"Come again?"

Your brow creases.

"I..." you set your fork down. "I thought everyone could smell it. Your skin just smells lovely, you know?"

Clyde swallows, and then his lips part for a second. His brows dip as though in thought.

"Huh."

"Please don't tell me I've got some weird dormant supernatural DNA that's going to make me shift into a cabbage or something. I really can't take that sort of strain on my psyche right now."

He smirks. "You'd make a beautiful cabbage."

"Werecabbage does have a certain ring to it."

Clyde's full lips push into a smile, dimples creasing in his cheeks as he looks over at you. There's this warmth flushed across his cheekbones that makes him look decidedly younger, lending to the sharpness there.

"What?" you smile sheepishly.

He bites his lip, reaching over the table to take your hand in his. Warm callouses find your fingers, tracing on your knuckles: his eyes linger on the place where your skin meets his, unable to tear away.

"Tell me somethin' about you."

Your blood catches. "What do you want to know?"

Clyde looks up into your eyes.

"Everythin'."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, a massive thanks to all of you who have been so dedicated to this fic. Jesus, I'm still in a constant state of perpetual shock over how much love it has gotten.
> 
> I'm beginning to see a series arc more clearly now, so I can say with confidence that there will be more smut relatively soon, and also we'll start delving into what I'd describe as the "major plot" in the next 5 chapters. So keep an eye out for that.
> 
>  
> 
> [Find me on Tumblr, tell me whether you're enjoying my hecking borker of a story! He's a good boy! YES HE IS! YES HE IS!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


	9. You're a midsummer mountain in bloom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your relationship to Clyde deepens as Clyde gains confidence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made you wait, so here's 5,000 words to keep you going  
> Also I definitely didn't listen to Paper Rings by Taylor Swift while writing this (at all)  
> ...

Clyde's heart is soaring.

The drive back to your house is filled with laughter: it's this beautiful, crazy thing that makes him want to shout out to the world - makes him feel half-drunk and lighter than he has in the longest time. Your scent sits on the roof of his mouth; tastes of summer and sunshine and everything good, everything lovely.

Everything he could want.

"--Bet you loved English, right? Y'seem like such a book nerd." He grins, cheeky and toothy as he pulls into your street.

You laugh this incredulous laugh.

"Oh, and _you're_ not?"

Clyde licks his lips.

"See, I'm really startin' to regret tellin' you that."

"You didn't need to tell me anything: I've seen the shelves in your living room. Everyone who enters the place has." You seem to trace your finger on the window, following the lights as they pass with the tip. "Face it, Clyde: you're the biggest nerd in this car."

"I'm debatin' that, Miss Star-Wars-Know-It-All."

The car rocks as he pulls up into your driveway: little cream porch laden with succulent plants and a cloth chair. He likes the way you keep things - likes the way there's something a little _you_ in every corner of your life, filtering in. You're a constant in so many ways; when he pictures you in his mind, he's finding more and more clarity to the thought. Developing this sense of you that he knows so well.

His heart does a little stutter as you open up the car door, shoes clicking on the tarmac. And he's--ugh, he's got to come to you, got to guide you to your door, he just _has to do it_ even if it makes him feel too clammy in his skin. The scent of your house when you opened your door was...

Clyde shivers. He hopes you don't notice.

His hand finds its way to your lower back as you fumble at your purse strap, half-skipping to the door with this sheepish smile. His metal hand nervously clicks: eventually, you're both standing at the door.

Anxiety spikes.

"I had a really good time, Clyde. Really good."

 _Oh_. His heart skips, face flushing.

"Me too."

You give him this delicate smile - lashes heavy as you glance over at your door, palming your keys nervously.

"Did you...want to come in? For a coffee?"

_For a coffee._

His whole body aches with the weight of it - sudden and hot, this pulsing in his veins that makes him flare with want. Because _for a coffee_ is never _for a coffee_ , is it? It's never just to sit and sip hot drinks on the sofa. It's an invitation: it's a question unanswered, a continuation of something that built deep in his chest when you held his hand across the table in that little restaurant. It's the fire that catches; it's dry and burning in his throat.

Clyde thinks he might want to more than anything.

And so he almost chokes on the words.

"I...can't."

Your face falls just a little. "Oh."

He hates this. _Hates this._

"Darlin'," his sweaty palm takes yours, his thumb stroking at your wrist. "You think I don't want to? Think I don't..." he licks his lips, taking a shaky breath. "I ain't used to havin' somethin' this good. You're too good; too much, and I ain't sure how I'll ever want t'leave."

You give this soft smile - taking a step closer to him, further into his arms. The smell of you; God, the smell of you. When will he ever stop feeling like you're in his bloodstream?

"Worried you'll rut all over my house?" you ask.

He growls.

"All over _you."_

Your lips part as his hand snakes down your arm; snakes to your lower back, pulling you closer in the dim porchlight. Cicadas chirp in the distance: somewhere, a dog barks up at the clear sky. There's something in this moment - something he feels a passing significance for.

Something so real.

"Let's do this again, then. Let's..." your voice is soft; heavy with lust "...I'd love to come and check out the bar sometime."

Clyde nods, black hair bobbing.

"Monday? Bar's closed Mondays; could make ya somethin' nice. Weather's good, too."

You smile. "We could do a picnic afterwards? I've got a great quiche recipe. Go for a stroll down to the woods."

A stroll in the woods. Lunch in his territory with you. A drink in his bar; you in his bar.

This is real. This is...God, this is _real._

_She's your mate, then. Your mate._

Oh God. Not quite, but...close. His breath is stolen, punched from his chest at the realisation.

"Yes," Clyde squeezes your back, breathless. "Sounds perfect."

And then - and then. You lean in and kiss him: kiss him in the golden light. This tender, soft thing, standing on the tips of your toes as the porch creeks and Clyde's brow dips with the sudden tenderness.

And like the needy wolf he is: Clyde Logan whimpers against your lips, the taste of strawberry lip balm and champagne making his blood ignite with this fierce want, this undeniable sense of belonging. He fists the cloth of your dress; wanting, wanting, wanting.

Your back hits the door as his teeth nip at your bottom lip, your breath hitching as your nails dig into the muscles on his arms. Christ; he's hard already, boxers too tight and _that_ spot on his nape is unbearably itchy under his collar. It's just a simple kiss, but oh - how he drinks you up like nothing else, your taste bringing back that throbbing in his veins.

_"Please, darlin', I need...need you. So much. Jesus, so much. Hurts like Hell."_

He hears it now all over again - feels it in his bones as you lick into his mouth.

"Clyde," you whisper, finally pulling away to nuzzle against him. His mouth follows yours: still lost in the moment, drunk on your scent.

He can hardly breathe.

_"Darlin'..."_

"I should go inside," you kiss at his neck, making electricity shoot through his blood. "I should. I should..."

Yes - you should.

"Monday. I'll see you Monday, right?" you ask, your hand reaching down for the doorknob.

Clyde just nods, dumbstruck.

"Monday. Can't wait."

How can it ever come soon enough?

* * *

 

Pulling up into the parking lot, the warm heat of the summer sun beaming down: you just feel so light.

Summer dress, all navy blue with little boats across the bodice; matching earrings that jingle as you step out into the heat. The bar is so much more homely than you'd ever imagined: big red letters spelling "Duck Tape" on stained wood, a few seats out the front with little cushions under the awning.

West Virginian charm meets rugged woodwork.

You take the steps two at a time, all nervous as you try the doorhandle. The little sign says "closed": but there's slack as you open up and step inside.

The smell of beer and varnished wood is everywhere - but it's lovely, somehow. It's so homely, from the fairy lights that line the bar to the big leather sofas at the back. A jukebox in the corner plays something acoustic; the clinking of glasses makes you swing around.

"Hey there, pretty lady."

Your heart skips as you spot Clyde, shining a glass and putting it down on the countertop. His moustache quirks in a cheeky smile: something you've hardly ever seen on him. Something playful in his brown eyes lingers; his grey button-up shirt flush to his chest in a way that shows every inch of muscle.

"What's a girl gotta do to get a drink around here?" you ask, sauntering over with an exaggurated flourish "Don't know if you've noticed, handsome, but it's boiling hot outside. I'm all sorts of parched."

Clyde braces himself against the bar, both hands flat on the countertop as he leans over. He smells so fucking good - looks so damned handsome.

He's so handsome when he's lost in the moment like this.

"Don't know if you've seen the sign, sweetheart, but this here bar's closed. I ain't one for makin' exceptions - even for someone lookin' so good as you."

You slide onto the barstool nearest to him, leaning over the counter just enough.

His eyes nearly bug out of his damned head.

"You sure you won't make me a drink?" you bat your lashes, curling your ankles over one another "not even if I ask," you crawl your index and middle fingers up his real arm, dragging them as Clyde licks his lips "very, very nicely?"

Clyde doesn't answer for a brief moment. You swear you see a flash of gold in his irises, flooding deep honey into the chocolate brown. When he swallows, it audibly crackles in his throat as though he's somewhere else.

"Well," he sucks the inside of his cheek, eyeing you hungrily "I-I think I might be able t'do you a favour, ma'am. I'm feelin' just a little generous."

You chuckle. "Change of heart?"

Clyde leans away, nearly stumbling into the liquor cabinet and making you break character pretty considerably with a big laugh.

"Smooth" you grin.

"Does your husband take kindly to you teasin' him like this?" He grabs a glass bottle of blue raspberry vodka from the shelf, twisting it in his palm as he reaches for a bottle filled with bright blue and swirling liquid.

"No husband."

Clyde seems to mouth the phrase 'no husband' to himself, raising his brows comically. He sets several bottles down on the bartop and grabs his metal arm. He presses something and it makes a sound: with his real hand, he takes off the prosthetic and sets it down on the bartop.

It's incredible watching him work - the way he takes an elegant glass, flips it in one hand. Grabs a cocktail shaker and starts pouring shots into it, seemingly without needing to measure amounts at all.

Good with his hand.

"Was assumin' a beautiful lady like you'd be spoken for."

You pick up the bottle of vodka as Clyde sets it down, reading the label nonchalantly.

"Well," you tap your lip "I'm seeing someone, now and again. You might know him, actually."

Clyde smirks. "Oh?"

"Mmm. Great guy - I'm pretty into him. He's got a few secrets, but it's no issue for me. I've always been into...lone wolves."

Clyde twists the cocktail shaker in his hand; laughing now, this blush creeping across his neck and reaching to his cheeks. He tries to stop it, but after a while: he really does start to grin wildly.

"He sounds..." Clyde licks his lips, smile wide as anything as he puts a cherry in the glass "...sounds like he'd be crazy about you."

You watch as he pours this gorgeous ice-blue drink into your glass, this hint of glitter swirling through the liquid and making it look somewhat magical. He tops it off with something darker - swirls of navy-blue forming on the top and making this gradient. 

It's incredible. Incredible.

And he did this all with one hand?

Holy shit: you're never letting this one go. Absolute catch.

Clyde slides the drink along to you - you waste no time taking a sip, letting the flavours dance on your tongue.

"Clyde: this is the best thing I've ever drank. In my life. Ever."

He shrugs, leaning over the bar onto his elbow. With a knowing wiggle of his brows, he takes the glass and has a sip, keeping eye contact with you.

"Not bad. Little heavy on the curacao--"

"What is this? What do you call it?" you snatch the drink back, taking another long sip and letting the warmth fill you up. Holy shit, this really is too good.

Clyde grabs his prosthetic, pulling up the sleeve and letting it suction back on.

"Just somethin' I came up with; seein' you in that pretty dress of yours."

Oh. Smooth talker.

"We'll call it a Blue Moon, then. In light of your love of full moons and boat-filled dresses."

Clyde jokingly scowls, sniffing as he takes another sip. It feels so natural, being with him like this. Being able to talk about his "condition" without parameters, without it being something dark and secret and hidden. Because it's him, isn't it? Not a good part, not a bad part. We're all the product of so many pieces - they all exist as a unit, in tandem together.

The sum of our parts is beautiful. The parts are beautiful too: flawed, broken, imperfect.

 _Beautiful_.

"I do not," Clyde grumbles, moving the bottles back into the cabinet, "love the full moon."

"No?"

Clyde sucks on his cheek, screwing on the caps of the bottles.

"You ever even seen a werewolf movie? Think those poor suckers were s'posed to be havin' fun?"

"Well," you lick your lips, picking at the cherry in your glass "I always thought it was played up. For theatrics. I mean...it's not exactly like you're...what I expected a werewolf would be like. You're pretty much a big puppy."

At that; Clyde eyes you incredulously. His hand pauses on the bottle.

"I'm prayin' you keep thinkin' that. Prayin' you never get to learn different."

It's said like a warning.

His eyes darken, and you feel this sudden instinct, too. A whisper in your mind; flowing on your skin:

_Run._

* * *

You get the sense he's truly, truly at home in the woods.

He's got your picnic basket in his real arm; slung over his left shoulder is this bulky backpack he's packed full of God knows what. Every step you take over branches is so easy for him, his face constantly shifting as his nostrils flare. Taking in the sounds, the smells of the rich dirt - for you, it's a powerful thing. For him, it must be this overwhelming stream of information: he's taking in every change, every flicker of light.

You hum as you clear a fallen log; it catches on your shoe a little, making you stagger gracelessly.

"You ok?" Clyde asks, metal hand tight around the strap of his backpack.

"Not much for coordination."

He grins. "Really? You? Couldn't've pictured it."

You nudge him with your shoulder, playfully making him find his balance.

"Smells good here today?" you ask, watching as his nose flares.

"Hmm?" Clyde's almost dreamlike: half-here, between places.

"You seem like you're distracted."

He shifts the basket slightly in his arm, muscles flexing. He's so broad. How is he so broad? He's got muscles where you've never even seen muscles before - lifting a basket that made your arms ache is nothing for him.

"Just alert. Been a while since I've been this way - lots to catch up on."

You nod, smiling a little as the sun dapples over your skin.

"Is this yours, then?" you gesture wildly to the woods around you; spreading yourself out to make note of the trees, the flowers, the logs. "This like your holiday home?"

Clyde looks up as a bird flies overhead, darting through the canopy.

"Bet national park rangers sure ain't seein' it that way, but yeah. All mine."

You whistle. "I like a man who owns real estate."

"Well," Clyde grins, moustache twitching "bet you'll love this lil' spot I found for ya, then."

He leads you out of the treeline - out into the most beautiful clearing. It's filled with summer flowers, with the chirping of crickets and the soft sound of birdsong. A lone oak tree sits in the centre, its leaves spreading outward to the sky as though to stroke the deep blue. The sunlight here is lovely and warm; dandelions bursting into little fluffy pieces as Clyde heads for the tree in the middle.

Your eyes widen as you laugh in disbelief.

_"Holy cow."_

You spin in a circle, letting your dress flare up as you move through the grass. It's like something from a dream; something so peaceful and bright that it feels hard to comprehend the reality of it. With a grunt of effort, Clyde sets down the basket and drops his backpack from his shoulder: opening up the zip and pulling out a big, tartan blanket.

You run over to him through the sunlight - join him in the spot he's made right on the edge of the shade. Here, sunlight dapples with the shadow: a perfect in-between, glimmering soft light on your skin.

"This is _beautiful_."

Clyde smiles to himself, clicking open the lock on your basket.

"Thought y'might think so."

You settle down, helping him take out the foods you've prepared. Nothing too fancy - a leek and potato quiche, some potato salad from a recipe you've tried twice and only gotten right once. A few cookies, some egg sandwiches. Hummus and crackers. There's enough food here to feed four people - which is why you're left feeling confused as Clyde unzips his backpack and empties out an entire hoard of corned beef sandwiches, a salad of some description, two fairly massive pies, what looks like butterscotch pudding--

"Well," you lick your lips, stomach rumbling "nobody here is going to starve."

Clyde's hair blows a little in the breeze as he reaches for an egg sandwich; eyeing it hungrily and taking off the plastic wrap you'd put it in.

When he bites into it, he makes an appreciative noise. His bite turns into scarfing: before you know it, the sandwich is gone.

"Fall's comin' up," he shakes his head, picking up a corned beef and taking a huge bite. "S'that time of year. Gotta eat."

You take out a plastic knife and cut a piece of quiche.

"Something special about fall?"

"Mhm..." Clyde swallows the piece of sandwich, blushing as he tries to get it down so he can speak. "Metabolism gets too fast. Gotta eat. Put on muscle for when winter comes knockin', else I'm tired as anythin' come Christmas." He takes a cup of water, sipping. "S'one month after I came back from tour, I spent all o' Christmas sleepin' on the sofa; only woke up when Mellie put the ham in the oven. Ate so much of it I thought I was gonna be sick."

You laugh. "I never really thought about it."

"Thought about what?"

"Well," you bite your lip, shrugging. "People change with the seasons. Different needs, you know? Guess I never thought that for werewolves that'd be stronger, because of the 'wolf' bit."

Clyde nods.

"Good thing I ain't a weresquirrel or we'd really be screwed, hey?"

Your eyes bug out. "Hang on. Do other were-creatures exist?" You half spit out your drink, eyes widening. "Jesus Christ, Clyde--do vampires exist? Jesus Christ, Clyde, Clyde, holy shit, how did I not even consider that this changes the entire ballgame?!"

Clyde's eyes narrow as he holds a cracker, frozen in mid-way to his mouth. "Why? You lookin' for a sparkly boyfriend now?"

You don't let up. "Are you serious?! You're withholding this from me out of theoretical jealousy?"

He eats the cracker slowly - chewing in slow motion, maintaining eye contact with you. When he swallows, it's hard: it seems to stick in his throat.

"Don't know. Know a lady in Iraq who claimed she was a witch and had this smell about her, this thing like..." he grinds his teeth "...brimstone or somethin'. But I'm reckonin' that was coincidence. Smelled people who smell not-quite-right, too. Like they ain't got...somethin' important. But if other types of...things exist, I ain't met 'em. I ain't been tryin', mind you - don't want too much attention."

You reel from that information - reel from the idea that there could be more. Could be a world of people, just trying to get by: hiding in the dark.

And you ask the question then that you've wondered about - the question that toys on your mind when you fall asleep. It's the question the books guess at, the films discuss: the question that brings up a thousand sources of literature, a thousand works of art.

The question everyone who feels the least bit ordinary considers, when they see someone extraordinary struggle. When they see someone extraordinary bite their lip, just as Clyde is right now.

"If you could--" you pick at the wrapping on your sandwich. "--Would you give it up? Would you want to be human?"

Is this the life you would choose, if you could go back again?

Clyde is very, very quiet.

"I..." he starts, his jaw moving. Somewhere, a crow caws; it mixes with the soft birdsong in the afternoon light. "...Be human? Be like them?"

You nod, uncertain now if you've overstepped.

He takes a deep breath.

"When I was a kid," he says quietly, looking up at the sky, "I used to hear my grandpa's stories. 'Bout runnin' in the woods, 'bout playin' with his pack. Used to want that for myself - remember Jimmy and I used to sit around growlin' at eachother, pretendin' we were wolves, too." Clyde's eyes darken a little. "I shifted first when I was eighteen. Ran into a drawer, nearly broke my damned nose. Didn't shift back for three days - mostly just stayed under the bed, howlin' loud enough to keep the family up. Was just shakin' from fear the whole time." He looks at you, then: holds your gaze. "When I was deployed, I spent weeks wonderin' how the hell I'd keep it a secret. Had to use connections to get my medical work faked, had to use pills to suppress shifts the whole time for both tours. Came back a mess - was sick for months after; pills made me feel like I was dyin', acid all over my skin. When that bomb went off, blew off my arm - all I was thinkin' was, shit: I ain't never gonna run right with a missin' paw. Never gonna be strong enough to defend nothin'."

You feel your heart ache in your chest - ache for him. For this.

"So when they hit me with a car an' I was stuck in that cage - I remember thinkin' I'd do anythin' not to be a wolf. Anythin'. I would've taken any life that ain't this one; started over." Clyde chews his lip, sighing. "But I look back now on it all - on all the things that got me here. On dumb luck and on stupidly bad luck and on you: and I'm thinkin'...what I really want ain't to be human. Bein' a wolf is somethin' in my bones, and I ain't wantin' to change it. What I want is to just be able t'be that man, and be that wolf, when it matters."

"Not to be two halves of something," you say quietly.

Clyde takes your hand; his heartbeat thrumming in his wrist.

"You see that?" he asks, breathless as the breeze flows around you both.

"Seeing you isn't hard, Clyde. In fact," you stroke at his palm, following the tough lines "it's one of the easiest things in the world."

He swallows, then: his eyes so soft, his lip just slightly trembling with emotion.

"How?" he asks, voice unsteady. "So many people looked at me in that cage. Hundreds. Thousands. And I saw you, saw your eyes - and you saw me, too. When there weren't a man t'see, you saw one. Don't ya know how rare that is? Know how easy it would've been to just leave me there?"

You shake your head. "I couldn't. I..." you think back, remembering him trembling - remembering the intelligence in his eyes. "You looked so scared."

Clyde's eyes look a little raw, his hand shaking as his lip trembles. It's this swirl of anxiety, this swirl of emotion that seems to linger on him: it takes you back, takes you back to holding him in that cage as you waited for Jimmy's rescue.

"And now?" he asks, leaning in closer as his voice drops to a whisper.

You let your nose stay inches from his; your lashes fluttering as you swallow.

"Scared. What are you afraid of?"

He presses his forehead to yours; closing his eyes.

"Scared of how close you make me," Clyde whispers, hoarse in your ears, "to bein' a whole thing."

You smile, closing your eyes as you nuzzle his nose.

"You _are_ a whole thing."

Clyde sniffs, pulling away.

"Keep your eyes closed," he says, groggy as he pulls away. The scent of him swirls in the air; cologne and spice and Clyde. There's this feeling here - this undeniable feeling of something in your bones as you squeeze your eyes shut. Something shuffles - the sound of material, of something being pulled from the backpack. A zip, somewhere - metal on the grass.

"What are you up to?" you ask, voice low.

"No peaking, understood?"

You just nod; holding your eyes tight even as strange sounds fill the clearing. Marbles on grass; the sound a glowstick makes when broken to ignite.

After some time, something wet makes contact with your nose.

Your eyes flutter open.

He's there - standing there, nose pressed to yours as his eyes take you in. Sharp gold; yellow, like honey and molten liquid against the darkness of his fur. It sways with gentle motions in the breeze; the same texture and shade as every lick of his hair, every line of stubble in his beard.

His expression is raw: something rarely seen, but always known. There is no word for the expression Clyde wears on his face - it is the most human thing in the world, and if you've held the gaze of another person in the quiet light of a morning, you'll know it. It is the look a person reserves only for the select few, when the hours are moving and the world is still.

You wonder if you look the same, now. Look at him from that place between comfort and anticipation.

Between wanting and holding. Between starlight and summer sun.

 _Oh._ Perhaps it has a name, after all.

Your hand reaches up to card through the fur just beneath his ear; he leans into it, ears flopping to the side.

"A whole thing," you repeat to yourself, kissing him on the tip of his nose. "Big puppy."

He snorts, blowing air down his nose as he suddenly bowls into you, knocking you over and pinning you with his paws. You laugh as you fall back onto the blanket; sandwiches scattering as Clyde keeps his front paw beside your head, his back two either side of your thighs. He growls playfully through his muzzle; pressing his wet nose to your cheek and giving a quick lick.

"Did you just _kiss_ me, Clyde?" You put your hand on your chest in mocking shock. "Was this your plan all along? Butter me up by being so sweet, then pin me with your big paws and lavish me with kisses? How absolutely ghastly! What will papa think?"

Clyde immediately lets his pink tongue coat your whole face in licks until you're bellowing with laughter, and in a surprise plan of attack you bring your fingers to his armpits and tickle down to his stomach, tears of laughter rolling down your face. Clyde begins darting around to get away from your tickling hands, but eventually succumbs to it with a bark; falling onto his side, tongue lolling and tail wagging like crazy as you blow raspberries on his stomach.

"Victory is mine! I conquered the werewolf!"

Clyde suddenly goes totally limp; everything drooping in the grass as you rest your chin on his stomach. He seems deathly still: your heart suddenly thumps with anxiety.

"Clyde?"

He doesn't respond.

You put your hand on his muscled stomach, pushing. In response, he flops about: limp as anything.

"Clyde!"

Your hands reach up to his muzzle; your ear on his snout as panic sets in. Holy shit, what'd he do? What'd you d--

A giant tongue laps at the side of your face, at your ear: everywhere he can reach as he grabs you with his big paws, making you stumble over with a yelp as he half-rolls on top of you: squashing you with his gigantic wolf body. He's easily as big as a horse, so the oxygen wheezes from your lungs as he wriggles around on top of you, sneezing and playfully barking in victory.

"You...dick..." you wheeze, giving him a push. "I...trusted...you!"

He jumps off of you with the biggest wolfy grin on his face, springing up onto his paws and bowing his head. His eyes squeeze shut, and suddenly you cover your ears as his voice echoes all around. His muzzle slowly moves to point to the sky, throat bobbing as he howls at the midday sun.

**"A-AAAWWWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"**

It's the loudest thing in the world: in response, you clap your hands against your ears and squeeze your eyes shut, making a similar "ARGOOOOOWOOOO!" noise in retaliation that is nowhere near as effective. He doesn't seem to stop; so you just keep everything closed and wince as he keeps going. Eventually - and really, really eventually - he finally stops: you still wincing away as his body bowls into yours.

When you finally pull your hands away from your ears and open your eyes: Clyde is very human, very naked, and laughing _very_ loudly.

"How the Hell did you do that?!" you cry out, collapsed on the rug next to him as he holds his chest and tries to stop this laugh that varies in pitch so much that it makes you forgive him for everything ever. He's so adorable: face flushed, hair disheveled, wiping tears from his eyes as he stares up at the sky.

"Trade secret," he gasps, blotting his face. "Holy crap, should've seen your damned face."

"My ears! You tried to melt my ears!"

"Jesus, when you tried to howl. Amazing. _Amazing_."

You give him a playful shove; he smirks, leaning in to kiss your shoulder just a little bit.

You shiver.

"I'd make a bad wolf, I get it."

Clyde's eyes crinkle in the corners as he hums softly, moving his arms back over his head to rest on them. "Hearin' you howl was..." he sighs heavily, biting his lip "...could listen to that all day. Hottest thing."

You laugh in disbelief. "You're serious."

Clyde looks at you with this steely gaze, his cheeks flushed and his lips red, and yes - he's deadly serious.

You slowly move to cuddle up to him; resting your cheek on his chest, your hand on his stomach. Clyde tenses all over - you don't miss the hardness between his legs, even if you do your very best to try to. His arm slowly snakes around your shoulders, and in the warmth of the sunlight he kisses the top of your head.

"I could do this every week," you sigh, nuzzling into his warm skin; bathing in his scent.

Clyde jitters nervously.

"We could."

You smile. "Fifth date sort of thing?"

Clyde seems to stiffen beneath you.

"Could stop countin' altogether. Could just..." he swallows, running his free hand through his hair. "...Maybe...I mean..." his earlier confidence has gone, and Clyde goes back to fumbling nervously. "...Forget it. S'stupid."

You feel your breath hitch as you smile into his chest. Yes. _Yes_.

"Yes. To your question. Of course I'd like to."

Clyde freezes. "What?"

"I'll be your girlfriend. I'd be crazy not to - you're a catch, Clyde."

He doesn't say anything for quite a while - his heart is absolutely pounding.

"Girlfriend," he says to himself, testing it on his tongue. _"Girlfriend."_

You bite your lip, stroking a circle into his stomach.

"Or your mate," you say softly. "I don't know what you'd rather call it."

You do know what he'd rather call it. You know by the way his breath seems to hitch: by the way his arms pull you so close, so tight at the word that you feel the air choking out of you. His heart is skipping, his hand is shaking.

"Oh my God." He breathes in disbelief, cradling you closer as his lips trace the most beaming smile onto your scalp. "My mate. You. My _mate_." He laughs, then: you feel it in his chest as he shakes with it. "Ain't never felt this happy. My God. A mate."

The wind dances through the trees; soft birdsong in the branches as the summer sun shines down.

And somewhere deeper in the woods - a branch cracks underfoot.

And then it is silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOOOOOOO  
> What's going on? What's going ON?!
> 
> As always, I'm Hope, and you can find me on [Tumblr as CallMeHopeless!](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com) If you have any questions about the story, please message me on there and let me know. <3


	10. You're a rose that for no man will yield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Instinct is a powerful thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Violence. It's graphic and gritty. Heads up!

The euphoria lasts and lasts.

It's there when he kisses you goodnight, right as orange light spills over the pines in Boone County. When he cooks up bacon for dinner - it's there, too. Warm in his chest, a giddy laugh in his throat.

When he lays awake that night, groaning as he spills into his fingers - it's the first time in as long as he can remember that it feels guiltless, shameless. He can taste your skin on the tip of his tongue: a memory from the kisses he's stolen. It stokes a fire in him that makes his bones vibrate.  And then, too; the euphoria fills him, right from his core.

You see him. _You see him._

You want him. _All of him._

His next rut, he realises, will be with you. You'll be there to snuff out the fire inside him - you'll stay in the morning, be there when he opens his eyes. When he's sore from the full moon, when he's restless and wandering the woods, when he's working the bar, when he's leaping through the snow--

You'll be there. You'll be his, and he'll be yours.

He closes his eyes: smile as bright as its ever been.

 _Yours_.

* * *

 

But fate doesn't have an idea of timing.

It's this day right at the start of Fall - this one cloudy day, humidity frizzing in the air. You're focused on the shot: your hand is unsteady on the pool cue, looking to pocket a red ball in one hit. Jimmy throws back his beer with a smirk; all confidence at his two point lead. Okay, so you're not practiced at pool - but come on. He could cut you a little slack.

"Thinkin' of takin' all day, sunshine?"

Your lip twitches.

"Why Jimmy? You've got somewhere to be at 2pm on a Saturday?"

Jimmy shrugs, drumming his fingers against the table. "Was just hopin' to be done here by Monday--"

Your cue clips the ball, sending the white clicking into the red - and it misses.

 _"Shit."_ You thump your fist on the edge of the table in frustration. Stupid fucking game.

Over at the bar, you hear the sound of a low chuckle.

"You treatin' my mate nice there, Jimmy?" Clyde calls over, writing something down in the earnings book with this big smile on his face. He's always smiling right now - _always_. In the few days since you started dating, he's been brimming with joy: when he kisses you, it's this hungry thing that fills the air with laughter, his smile against your lips almost contagious.

You're the first girlfriend he has ever had that _knew_. The first person he's ever been able to give the whole of himself to.

Isn't that just the most amazing thing?

"He's being an ass again, Clyde!"

Jimmy gives a joking scowl, swinging the pool cue in this cocky way as he sets down his beer. Clyde's footfalls on the wooden floor ring out: when he reaches you, he wraps his arms around your waist from behind. His prosthetic hand lingers on your shorts; his real one flattens on your stomach, dipping under your shirt just a little as he kisses the inside of your jaw with wet, exaggerated noises.

You writhe from the tickling of his mustache, laughing as you tilt your head.

"I won't be lettin' him get away with that." Clyde breathes into your jaw, nuzzling at your ear with a big grin. "Gonna have to make sure he knows who's boss."

"Lord above: you two are disgustin'."

Clyde swings you around a little, your sneakers squeaking as the rich scent of him makes you feel breathless and giddy.

"And you and Sylvie ain't? Don't forget: I had'te watch all of that from behind that there counter. _Six months_ , Jimmy."

Jimmy grumbles something under his breath that you can't quite hear: you make out something about the FBI, which pricks at your ears a little bit.

"Well, you know how things were. Was a stressful...there was a..." Jimmy's brows dip, his sentence cutting off as he licks his lips. "...You gettin' that?"

Clyde's posture stiffens behind you: his heartbeat picks up a little. When he audibly sniffs - you get the feeling something is wrong. Call it intuition, call it the workings of fate: but this isn't a simple flicker of something on the wind. 

Dangerous.

You could hear a pin drop.

"Lock the door," Clyde growls, straightening up as his arms drop from your waist. "Jimmy, _lock the damned door."_

Jimmy doesn't hesitate - he starts walking towards it, starts pushing chairs out of the way as he clambers over to the front door. Everything feels tense enough to snap: you start to feel this rising tension in your gut, this sense that you're exposed. Confusion washes over you in equal measure to fear: when they collide inside you, they start to _burn_ in your chest.

"Clyde? What's going on?"

Clyde's eyes are trained on the door. His posture is so straight that when he grabs your wrist to tug you back, it sparks this strange, unnamed hurt inside of you.

"Stay behind me."

And it's said with such finality; there is no more room to think of it.

No more room for anything.

Jimmy gets to the door right as it opens: when he backs away, it's this relenting, slow thing. The tide ebbing back from the shore; inevitable. Decided.

Fate.

The man is _huge_. Tall and wide - all muscle, thick right the way through and corded on his stomach in a big way. His blonde hair is tousled: thin lips and strong jaw. Plain blue jeans and a tight-fitted black shirt as he clenches his fists, and Hell: his face is so stormy, so stone-set and powerful that it makes your heart race. He's strangely handsome - you can't put your finger on it. Can't quite figure out what it is about the air around him: the way it almost... _cracks_. 

He moves like the storm. Like the flash of lightning, deep in the night.

The drums of war that herald the dawn.

He's flanked by two more people: a woman with curled black hair and a deep purple dress, and a man with slanted features and a scar across his cheek. Both of them orbit him of their own volition; the woman smirks as she runs a fingernail over the outline of a chair. The scarred man eyes Jimmy with passing interest - nostrils flaring as he takes in the scents of the bar.

Werewolves. All of them.

Moving as a unit.

"Jimmy," the blonde man smirks, lip twitching. "Been a while."

His accent isn't quite local - it's layered. Inflections don't quite sit in the right places.

Clyde hardly breathes. Jimmy straightens.

"Travis," Jimmy is unrepentant. "You ain't welcome here. Think we've made that pretty fuckin' clear."

Clyde doesn't even correct Jimmy on his language. Doesn't move to chastise him. Doesn't so much as blink.

Fuck.

Travis laughs - it's like melted chocolate, this thick, dark thing.

"Last I checked it's all my territory. This whole town: this whole corner of the state. Right up from Parkersburg down to Princeton; all the places inbetween." He puts his hand on the back of a chair, drumming his fingers on the wood as he leans closer to Jimmy. "Unless times have changed."

Jimmy doesn't smile.

"They might've."

When Travis turns to you and Clyde, you feel the air grow cold.

"Afternoon, Clyde. You've been gone a long time."

Clyde's hand tenses into a fist: his nails dig into his palm as he swallows. You can see the way his pulse jumps in his throat, brown eyes dark with something deep in his chest.

But Clyde doesn't say a damned thing.

"Nothing? No?"

Clyde growls.

 "I ain't got _nothin_ ' to say to you."

Travis' blue eyes seem to shine with something for a moment - a passing glint of something dangerous, the spill of liquid mercury into ice. When he shrugs: it seems almost too careless. Too played-out. Thought out.

"Pity. I only came to see if the rumours were true." He licks his lips, gripping the edge of a seat. "See if you really were holed up in some cage somewhere by the highway."

Clyde sucks on his teeth. Outside, rain lightly patters.

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I ain't."

The woman in the purple dress flashes a cruel-looking smile at Clyde: all teeth and no warmth to it. Of the three of them she's the least stocky, but something in the way she carries herself makes her seem to puncture the air. Sharpness and cruelty; teeth too white and lips too thin.

"Who's the pet?" She points a manicured finger at you; her accent strange and throaty.

Travis' eyes flicker to you, then. His throat bobs.

"She's with me," Clyde spits, feet firmly planted as he works his jaw. _"Get out."_

Travis raises his brows, whistling. "With you?"

And then, the silence hits. Cuts through the air like a knife as the room freezes. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears; taste blood on your tongue as everyone holds position - and it's obvious to anyone that the slip of the tongue was not intentional. 

Not _acceptable_.

Travis' expression is unreadable as he leans forward a little, body language open.

"Come here, pretty thing. Let me get the measure of you."

Clyde _snarls_. His hand flies out, stopping you dead on the spot as he bares his teeth. Gold filters into his eyes: lips peeled back in pure aggression.

"GET. OUT!"

Someone shrieks in response to Clyde's provocation - and then the room descends into utter _chaos_.

It's too fast to comprehend: one minute you're on your feet, and the next things are grossly disjointed as you're pinned against a wall. Jimmy shouts your name: Clyde snaps his teeth as a sound like wood splintering fills the room. There's a muscled elbow near your throat, someone flattening themselves against you: and then it's ripped away, glass cracking underfoot as you reach for something to defend yourself, anything at all.

A beer bottle.

It's hardly a weapon, but you grab Jimmy's empty bottle - holding it up right as someone grabs your arm. You yelp in shock, bottle pushed up against your assailant's throat in the least menacing away imaginable.

Across the room, Clyde shouts your name. It rips from his chest like it burns in his throat: somewhere, you hear Jimmy cursing as he tries to stagger up under the weight of the scarred man pinning him flat to the table.

Travis squeezes your wrist. The bottle clatters to the floor as your heart pounds: the world spinning as silver eyes meet yours.

You hold his gaze with defiance. Bite your lip and struggle in his encompassing stare.

"Resourceful," he chuckles, leaning in closer to you. He's got this smell about him - something lush and dark, like the forest in the black of night. It's oddly satisfying: not quite pleasant, but something drawing you. Pulling you in. "You've got fight in you yet, girl."

When you glance over his wide shoulders: you see Clyde's honey eyes watching you, filled with encompassing anger and fear. The woman he's being held by growls at him, this rumble in her throat as she keeps him flat against the wall. His hair is a mess as he winces; struggling against her in a weak attempt to throw her off.

She must be strong. So strong.

"Did he steal you away? Take you from your family and call you his _thing?_ Hmm?" Travis says quietly, leaning ever closer.

_"Fuck you."_

All at once: his hand wraps firmly around your throat. Not applying pressure, just...holding. Your pulse jumps under his fingers.

"But you are so pretty, aren't you? And the smell of you..." Travis' nostrils flare; silver eyes fluttering shut as he runs his nose close to your jaw. Something about that act must infuriate Clyde - he almost screams, choking on this horrid sound that makes your very bones hurt for him.

"Keep your nose to yourself..." Jimmy wheezes "...asshole..."

Travis pulls back abruptly. His brow creases as he looks over at Clyde: incredulous.

"You dare," he licks his lips "you dare to mate a human girl for saving your life? You dare to take her as an alpha female in my pack?" Travis squeezes your throat tighter: in response, you reach up your fingers to claw at his grip. Spots dance in your vision; tendrils of darkness sparking in the corners. "You think fucking her while in your rut makes you a man, Clyde?! You think it makes you worthy?!"

Clyde's face is deep red: veins bulging as he struggles desperately.

When Travis turns back to you: his face is warped. Pupils huge, teeth elongated as his canines drip with a thick liquid.

"I'll do you a favour," he growls. "Turn this one for you. You're right: she'll make a good alpha." He huffs through his nose, stroking your pulsepoint with his thumb. "We'll make strong pups. And you can _watch_."

You close your eyes, swallowing hard. The world seems to bleed; fear sending everything into this flowing red, your legs trembling.

And then: Clyde _roars_.

A mass of muscle and black fur rips through the air; collides with Travis, ripping his hand away as you gasp. In the time it takes for you to stagger to the floor: Travis is a mess of grey fur, ears huge and jaws dripping. These wolves, though: these wolves are nothing like the ones you've seen before, running through a field. Nothing like Clyde in his little cage, howling and whining.

These are the monsters of legend: the creatures that live in the pages of stories. Their bodies are hulking; built with endless muscle, bipedal as they stagger on elongated claws. Huge masses of fur cover every inch of their skin, their jaws full of sharp teeth and dripping spit that falls as they snap. Clyde is massive, terrifying: golden eyes filled with violence, with hate and desire to _rip_ , to _destroy_.

This isn't happening. _This isn't happening._

The hostile man and woman seem to know better than to get involved: their eyes flash as they watch the violence with sick grins, seemingly enjoying the violence as it plays out. Travis is the larger of the two - his jaws manage to clamp on Clyde's thigh. In response, he barks and whimpers.

 _"Clyde,"_ you choke quietly.

Clyde's head whips around to you: but Travis is quicker. He staggers towards you with a dripping maw, silver eyes cruel as his claws try to reach for your leg.

"Back off, ugly!"

Jimmy slams a chair into Travis' side - in response, the huge werewolf turns slowly, scraping on the floor as he growls.

_"Shit."_

Clyde is bleeding from his leg, black fur torn in places as he tries to tackle Travis to the side. His back foot kicks you in the stomach: it digs straight through your top, claws ripping skin and making you gasp in pain. You clutch the wound, three thick tears right the way down into your skin that leak crimson onto the floor.

And Clyde freezes.

His entire being angles at you. Eyes _black_.

And Travis takes that moment to crash out of the door: shifting back violently as his packmates follow. You watch his skin ripple back into place, naked legs trembling as he runs across the parking lot with a victorious howl. All three of them jostle one another as they sprint across the road, disappearing into the trees just beyond.

But Clyde doesn't join them.

"Clyde?" you whisper nervously; watching as he approaches. His hulking form bears over you, shoulders heaving and jaws dripping as he staggers to you.

He looks predatory. No trace of a man in sight.

No trace of anyone.

You gasp as your side throbs, pushing your hand flush to the wound as you feel warmth on your fingertips. In response, Clyde thrusts his muzzle forward: a low growl in his throat, nostrils flaring as he tastes the air.

"Don't..." Jimmy pants, off to the side somewhere. "...Don't move."

You lick your lips. Clyde's ears are pricked up, spit drooling onto your leg.

"J-Jimmy--" you protest, voice wobbling.

"--Just...stay very still."

In response: Clyde's jaws part further. His teeth are so huge, so sharp: they encircle your neck as he pins you back against the wall. Sharpness surrounds you, Clyde's claws on one side of your head. One movement and he could puncture your jaw, could break you in half.

You're shaking. Tears bead in your eyes.

"Clyde..." you whisper. "... _Please_..."

You wait. And wait. And wait.

And in a sudden movement: Clyde pulls back.

He staggers away uneavenly, falling onto his back with a cry as his black fur twists, claws retracting. He slowly crawls away from you as his joints snap, bones aching and his tail melting back into his body. Every movement he takes is pierced by broken sobs: when his back suddenly hits the mahogany bar, he shrinks in on himself. His palm pushes up to his eyes: he curls, naked and sobbing into his hand.

Jimmy lets out a sigh or relief, falling back against the wall.

You just clutch your wound, surveying the devastation. A table broken; at least three chairs mauled, broken glass all over the floor. The door's looking beaten - and Clyde is covered in scratches, bleeding superficially in some places and less so in others.

"Clyde..." you start to move towards him, but gasp as the pain tugs at your side.

Jimmy's over to you in a flash: even as you keep your eyes on your boyfriend. He's crying in this harrowing way, these full bodied sobs that made his shoulders shake as Jimmy moves your hand, assessing the damage Clyde's claws have done to your skin.

"How bad is it?" you ask.

Jimmy sniffs, fumbling in his pocket for the crappy cell phone Clyde's talked him into getting. He presses speed dial and pushes it to his ear.

"Sylvie? Hey, yeah." He puts your hand back onto the wound, pushing it down to keep the pressure on. "Yeah, need ya to bring the ambulance to the bar. Clyde's girl's in bad shape." He pauses. "Uh huh. Needs stitches for sure. How soon?" The phone chitters; your vision getting very spotty. "Alright. Alright. See ya in a sec."

Jimmy snaps the phone off, gritting his teeth and shooting a look over his shoulder.

"You done feelin' sorry for yourself long enough to give us a hand?"

When Clyde pulls his hand away from his face, his eyes are raw. Red and watery, puckered from tears.

"I could've killed her." Clyde cries, tears tracking on his face. "I smelled the blood, I wanted--"

"--For God's sake, Clyde! She ain't needin' this right now!"

The room sways; everything spins just a little too fast. You start to fall sideways: when you do, Clyde's hand catches your cheek. Time isn't quite functioning - things jump around, voices getting dark.

"S'alright darlin'." Clyde sniffles, plush lip trembling. "Sylvie's almost here. I ain't gonna let nothin' bad happen."

"Don't blame yourself," you slur, head throbbing. "You're still a whole thing."

The lights start to dim: he holds you close.

"Love you," Clyde cries.

_Love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorryI'msorry--
> 
> [Feel free to berate me on Tumblr for these crimes against soft boys](http://callmehopeless.tumblr.com)


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